


Fairest and Fallen

by Shivani



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dimension Travel, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26007862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shivani/pseuds/Shivani
Summary: Morgan was ever so surprised to be ripped away from his world and into one where he was known as Harry Potter, all for a tournament with a death toll so high it had been rightfully discontinued? Clearly there was more to it, but he first had someone to find.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 25
Kudos: 193





	1. 01: 1994

**Author's Note:**

> **1**. Title comes from the Young Wizards series by Diane Duane. Big Bad is referred to as Fairest and Fallen more than once. I think. If I’m remembering right.
> 
>  **2**. 5k chapters. It just didn’t lend well to my present 10k preference.
> 
>  **3**. Obviously, lots of changes to canon. This is more pre-slash than slash, but there is some vague Harry/Tom action, so I’m showing it as a pairing.
> 
>  **4**. The idea for this came in at around the same time as _Control Issues_ (which sparked _Tweak_ , and then this, though this one is a different take on certain oddities found in that story). I’m only just now getting around to doing anything with it after the initial start a year ago.
> 
>  **5**. Yes, yes, I get the part where memories would not quite come across that way in a pensieve. I don’t give a fuck. Really. I’m not required to give a fuck. I’m not being paid to give a fuck.
> 
>  **6**. Not trying for, uh, high realism here. I just want the idea out of my head and onto the page.
> 
>  **7**. Written: 2019 08 18 - 2020 08 20. Initial assembly: 2020 08 20.

## 01: 1994

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he read, in a strong, clear voice, “will be Viktor Krum.”

Viktor Krum rose from the Slytherin table and slouched up toward Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber.

“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. “Knew you had it in you!”

The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone’s attention was focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour!”

The girl who so resembled a veela got gracefully to her feet, shook back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. Two of the girls who had not been selected had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their heads on their arms.

When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next…

And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.

“The Hogwarts champion,” he called, “is Cedric Diggory!”

Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way past them, grinning broadly, and headed off toward the chamber behind the teachers’ table. Indeed, the applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some time before Dumbledore could make himself heard again.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real—”

But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him.

The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment.

Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out—

“Harry Potter.”

For a long moment nothing happened, and then, a swirling vortex of light appeared near the Goblet of Fire, in the open space in front of it. From it came a man with longish dark hair, dressed as a pure-blood of some wealth, and appeared to be very startled by his change in circumstances if his initial defensive posture meant anything.

The hall was deathly silent for another long moment, and then whispers started up. Pointing, speculative looks, and louder talk followed.

Morgan, who had been enjoying a quiet evening with his Sponsored, found himself ripped away by a swirling vortex of light, which had the effect of confusing and alarming him, and his Sponsored to shout in alarm and struggle to reach him in time to hold fast to him, to no avail.

He was deposited in a place he knew well, the Great Hall of Hogwarts, to a scene he had no idea how to react to. He ignored the whispering that sprang up and eyed the jeweled casket in front of him, upon which rested a roughly-hewn wooden goblet. There was a ghost of a memory in his head, about something he had read up on at one point, but he could not quite put his finger on it.

“Well,” Dumbledore said. (At least Morgan recognized him, though he did not know in what capacity the man was employed at present.) “Through the door, Harry,” he said, turning slightly and indicating the one at the back right.

Morgan frowned. Who Harry was was a mystery, but clearly the old man thought he was this Harry person. Given the sheer number of people in the Great Hall, it was probably not the best time to quibble over his identity. “Why am I here?” he asked.

Dumbledore frowned back, though only slightly. “Your name came out of the Goblet of Fire.”

‘The bloody Goblet of Fire?’ he thought. ‘Is that what this thing is? Granted, I’ve not been in the UK for ages, but I would think I’d have heard something about another tournament being held. That’s big news, alarming news. Why would anyone put my name in it? Are they that upset about how I treated my Sponsored?’

He shook his head and headed off through the indicated door and found himself in a smaller room, lined with paintings of witches and wizards. A fire was roaring in the fireplace opposite him.

The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he entered. He saw a wizened witch flit out of the frame of her picture and into the one next to it, which contained a wizard with a walrus mustache. The wizened witch started whispering in his ear.

Three young people were grouped around the fire. One, a dark-haired male, was hunched up and brooding, leaning against the mantelpiece, slightly apart from the other two. The second, also a dark-haired male, stood with his hands behind his back, and wore the accent colours of Hufflepuff. The third, a female with a sheet of long, silvery hair, looked over when he entered.

“What is it?” she said. “Do zey want us back in ze Hall?”

Morgan arched a brow and moved to stand against the wall.

There was a sound of scurrying feet behind him, and a portly man entered the room. “Extraordinary!” he muttered. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen … lady,” he added, approaching the fireside and addressing the other three. “May I introduce—incredible though it may seem—the fourth Triwizard champion?”

Broody straightened up; his face darkened as he surveyed Morgan. Hufflepuff looked nonplussed. He looked from Portly to Morgan and back again as though sure he must have misheard what Portly had said. Silvery, however, tossed her hair, smiling, and said, “Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester Bagman.”

“Joke?” Bagman repeated, bewildered. “No, no, not at all! Harry’s name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!”

“At what point were we introduced that you would have permission to use a given name?” he asked pointedly, staring at the portly man.

Bagman startled in place, making his belly shimmy, and he cast an uncertain look at Morgan. Broody’s thick eyebrows contracted slightly. Hufflepuff was still looking politely bewildered.

Silvery frowned. “But evidently zair ’as been a mistake,” she said contemptuously to Bagman. “ ’E cannot compete. ’E is clearly not a student.”

“Well … it is amazing,” said Bagman, rubbing his smooth chin and aiming a strained smile at Morgan. “His name’s come out of the goblet … I mean, I don’t think there can be any ducking out at this stage… It’s down in the rules, you’re obliged … Ha—Mr Potter—will just have to do the best he—”

The door behind them opened again, and a large group of people came in: Professor Dumbledore, followed closely by a humorless-looking bureaucrat, a Slavic-looking man, an enormous lady (who might well be a half-giant) in satin, a starched and prim older woman, and a sallow-skinned man with oily black hair. Morgan could hear the buzzing of the hundreds of students on the other side of the wall, before the door was closed.

“Madame Maxime!” said Silvery at once, striding over to what was presumably her headmistress. “Zey are saying zat zis man is to compete also!”

Maxime drew herself up to her full, and considerable, height. The top of her head brushed the candle-filled chandelier, and her gigantic black satin-covered bosom swelled. “What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?” she said imperiously.

“I’d rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore,” said the Slavic man. He was wearing a steely smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. “Two Hogwarts champions? I don’t remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions—or have I not read the rules carefully enough?” He gave a short and nasty laugh.

“C’est impossible,” said Madame Maxime, whose enormous hand with its many superb opals was resting upon Silvery’s shoulder. “ ’Ogwarts cannot ’ave two champions. It is most unjust.”

“At what point did I become a Hogwarts student?” he said. “I was dragged here against my will and I don’t even know who this Harry person is.”

He was, of course, ignored, but given his experiences during his seven years at Hogwarts that was not unexpected. He also knew it was likely that Dumbledore had excellent mental shields, so he did not bother to attempt to slip into the man’s mind.

“It’s no one’s fault but Potter’s, Karkaroff,” said the greasy-haired man softly. His black eyes were alight with malice. “Don’t go blaming Dumbledore for Potter’s determination to insert himself into this tournament just so he can make a—”

“Thank you, Severus,” said Dumbledore firmly, and the man went quiet, though his eyes still glinted malevolently through his curtain of greasy black hair.

Dumbledore looked at Morgan, who stared right back.

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” he asked calmly.

“One, I did not, I was dragged here against my will. Two, I don’t know who this Harry is you think I am. Three, I am most certainly not a student at Hogwarts. Four, I don’t recall giving anyone here permission to address me in such a familiar manner. Five, who was so imbecilic as to start up the Triwizard Tournament again? Does the recorded death toll mean nothing to you people?”

The greasy-haired man made a soft noise of impatient disbelief in the shadows. Unfortunately, a quick test of his mind showed he had shields, but Morgan thought he had been subtle enough not to have been noticed.

“Ah, but of course ’e is lying!” cried Maxime.

Greasy started shaking his head, his lip curling.

“Or Dumbly-dorr must ’ave made a mistake somehow,” said Maxime, shrugging.

“It is possible, of course,” said Dumbledore politely.

“Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make any mistakes!” said Starched-and-Prim angrily. “And really, what nonsense! This man barely even looks like James, for one thing, and he’s clearly too old to be Harry.”

“Mr Crouch … Mr Bagman,” said Slavic, his voice unctuous once more, “you are our—er—objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?”

Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and looked at the bureaucrat, presumably Mr Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half darkness giving him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke, however, it was in a curt voice.

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”

“Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front,” said Bagman, beaming and turning back to Slavic and Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now closed.

“I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students,” said Slavic. He had dropped his unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a very ugly look indeed. “You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It’s only fair, Dumbledore.”

“But Karkaroff, it doesn’t work like that,” said Bagman. “The Goblet of Fire’s just gone out—it won’t reignite until the start of the next tournament—”

“—in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!” exploded Karkaroff. “After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!”

“Empty threat, Karkaroff,” growled a voice from near the door. “You can’t leave your champion now. He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” The newcomer limped toward the fire, and with every right step he took, there was a loud clunk owing to the peg leg he sported. The man looked as if he had been on the wrong side of a muggle woodchipper, and the enchanted eye he was wearing was more than a little creepy.

“Convenient?” said Karkaroff. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Moody.”

“Don’t you?” said Moody quietly. “It’s very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter’s name in that goblet knowing he’d have to compete if it came out.”

“Evidently, someone ’oo wished to give ’Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!” said Madame Maxime.

“I quite agree, Madame Maxime,” said Karkaroff, bowing to her. “I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards—”

“If anyone’s got reason to complain, it’s Potter,” growled Moody, “but … funny thing … I don’t hear him saying a word…”

Morgan’s brow went up again. Considering he had not heard the door open and close again or the swell of voices from students who might still be out there, this Moody must have slipped in with the others and remained concealed. He would have heard his earlier statements, though he was correct in that Morgan had yet to actually complain about his inclusion. Given how he had been ripped away from his life, it was entirely possible his original name had been Harry Potter, and that meant something to these people. What he was unsure of was whether it was some form of forced time travel or something else.

“Why should ’e complain?” burst out Silvery, stamping her foot. “ ’E ’as ze chance to compete, ’asn’t ’e? We ’ave all been ’oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money—zis is a chance many would die for!”

Morgan rolled his eyes slightly. Right, because the honor of the school he did not attend was clearly of such importance to him, never mind the utter fortune of a thousand galleons. He had far more than that in his emergency stash he always kept on him.

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl.

An extremely tense silence followed these words. Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, “Moody, old man … what a thing to say!”

“We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn’t discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime,” said Karkaroff loudly. “Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons.”

“Imagining things, am I?” growled Moody. “Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy’s name in that goblet…”

Boy, was he? A surreptitious charm told him that the date was 31 October 1994, which was mind-boggling. It had been 1947 before he had been dragged into this madness. That placed him in his 70s, depending on how things went, as his birth year was 1922.

“Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?” said Madame Maxime, throwing up her huge hands.

“Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!” said Moody. “It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament… I’m guessing they submitted Potter’s name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category…”

‘So quick to put forth a theory,’ he thought. ‘This one bears watching. Hopefully he won’t have mental shields, or only poor ones.’

“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody,” said Karkaroff coldly, “and a very ingenious theory it is—though of course, I heard you recently got it into your head that one of your birthday presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock. So you’ll understand if we don’t take you entirely seriously…”

“There are those who’ll turn innocent occasions to their advantage,” Moody retorted in a menacing voice. “It’s my job to think the way Dark wizards do, Karkaroff—as you ought to remember…”

“Alastor!” said Dumbledore warningly.

Moody fell silent, though still surveying Karkaroff with satisfaction—Karkaroff’s face was burning.

“How this situation arose, we do not know,” said Dumbledore, speaking to everyone gathered in the room. “It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do…”

“Ah, but Dumbly-dorr—”

“My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it.”

Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not speak, she merely glared. She wasn’t the only one either. Greasy looked furious, Karkaroff livid.

Bagman, however, looked rather excited. “Well, shall we crack on, then?” he said, rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. “Got to give our champions their instructions, haven’t we? Barty, want to do the honors?”

Mr Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie. “Yes,” he said, “instructions. Yes … the first task…”

He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, the man looked ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin.

“The first task is designed to test your daring,” he told Morgan and the three students, “so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard … very important… The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges.

“The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests.”

Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore.

“I think that’s all, is it, Albus?”

“I think so,” said Dumbledore, who was looking at Crouch with mild concern. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?”

“No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry,” said Crouch. “It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment… I’ve left young Weatherby in charge… Very enthusiastic … a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told…”

‘To the Ministry, this late at night?’ he thought.

“You’ll come and have a drink before you go, at least?” said Dumbledore.

“Come on, Barty, I’m staying!” said Bagman brightly. “It’s all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!”

“I think not, Ludo,” said Crouch with a touch of impatience.

“Professor Karkaroff—Madame Maxime—a nightcap?” said Dumbledore.

But Maxime had already put her arm around Silvery’s shoulders and was leading her swiftly out of the room. Morgan could hear them both talking very fast in French as they went off into the Great Hall. Karkaroff beckoned to Broody, and they, too, exited, though in silence.

“Cedric, I suggest you head to your common room,” said Dumbledore, smiling at him. “I am sure Hufflepuff is waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise.”

Cedric nodded and wandered out, which left Morgan.

“Ah, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “We shall have to see about getting you Sorted and—”

Morgan shook his head. “Once again, you presume … Albus. I am no student for you to Sort. It is entirely possible I am bound to this death trap of a tournament, but you are in no position to dictate anything to me.”

“How dare you show such disrespect, Mr Potter!” Starched said.

“Minerva, please,” Dumbledore said.

He glanced at the woman and said, “Disrespect toward me is repaid with disrespect,” before turning to Dumbledore. “I would appreciate if you would provide me with a complete set of the rules for this tournament, so that I may go over them. Surely you have already done so for your students, so they would know exactly what they were signing up for. It should be no trouble for you to present a copy to me.”

Dumbledore’s brow crinkled briefly before smoothing out. “Harry Potter is fourteen years old, and certainly the age for a student.”

“And I am twenty-five, not the age for a student,” he rebutted. “I have long since completed the required education.”

“Where, might I ask?”

“You may ask, but I will not answer, as I suspect you will immediately seek to gain information about me, information that is none of your business.” He honestly wondered at what point, if ever, one of them would actually ask what his name was if he claimed not to answer to Harry Potter. “Besides, given the way you talk, I would be Sorted into a House and placed with the fourth years, which is ludicrous. If I had been hidden away somewhere you could not find, and you had not heard of me, surely I would have been placed with first years. After all, you cannot expect a person to learn years of education in a few short weeks.”

The expression that flitted across the headmaster’s face said that was his exact plan.

Greasy was scowling in the background, clearly holding himself back from spitting venom at someone, presumably him.

“I will contact you after I’ve had a chance to speak with Gringotts,” he said, then hastened off before anyone could stop him. He flitted off through the Great Hall, out into the entrance hall, and exited the castle. A very strong disillusionment charm covered his passage down to the gates and through them, so he could get beyond the wards and apparate to Diagon Alley.

The bank was open from what he could see, but he went to the Leaky Cauldron instead to get a quick meal and secure a room for the night. The fellow who ran the place, Tom, informed him that Gringotts was open at all hours, which was heartening. At least that had not changed. He thanked him, accepted a key, then headed for the bank.

As it was so late for there to be few customers, it was no trouble to arrange to speak with someone with more authority than a teller. He was led off to an office and invited to take a seat.

“What can Gringotts do for you?”

“I was just dragged to Hogwarts from another country entirely as a competitor in the Triwizard Tournament they’re holding there,” he said. “They seem to be under the impression that my name is Harry Potter. And, generally speaking, if one wants reliable knowledge of heritage, one goes to Gringotts rather than rely on wizards.”

The goblin’s brow shuffled up. “And what name do you know yourself by?”

“Morgan Linfred Chiswell, branch member of the House of Potter. Fleamont Potter treated me as a nephew. When I was dragged away, to be dumped at Hogwarts, it was 1947.”

The goblin’s other brow shuffled up to match the first. “I see, Mr Chiswell. Yes, we can do the heritage test.”

“What fee?”

“Fifty galleons.”

He snorted. “That’s highway robbery. Ten.” After a spirited round of haggling they settled on twenty-five.

“Very well,” the goblin said. “I am Irongut. Let me get what is necessary.”

He nodded and the goblin shuffled off to a side room of the office.

Irongut was back shortly thereafter and placed a glass bottle, a tiny cauldron, a quill, and some parchment on his desk. The contents of the bottle went into the cauldron before he said, “Please add your blood to the cauldron, Mr Chiswell. Seven or more drops will be sufficient.”

Everything matched up to what he remembered going through when he was eleven, so he nodded, cut his left hand on the sharp edge jutting out from the cauldron, and dripped in blood. The goblin absentmindedly healed him before stirring the cauldron with a glass rod, then dipped the quill in.

It took some time for the quill to imbibe the potion, but when it had Irongut placed it on the parchment. The quill acted on its own, writing out a fair amount of information, which the goblin checked before pushing the parchment his way.

Morgan picked it up and had a read. The results showed that he was somehow both Morgan Linfred Chiswell, pure-blood son of Edward and Sophia Hartwell (where Edward was the bastard son of an illicit affair between Henry Potter and pure-blood Megara Hartwell), and Harry James Potter, greater half-blood son of James and Lily Potter (where James was the son of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter).

“This is disturbing,” he said, looking up again as he placed the parchment on the desk.

“Why Chiswell?”

“Uncle Fleamont was unhappy that I resided in a muggle orphanage prior to the usual heritage test at Gringotts for all incoming students, and worried I had taken in too much of the muggle ways. My surname comes from where I was originally found, which was Chiswell Street, but Uncle Fleamont decided to give me a Potter Family middle name, after our ancestor.”

Irongut presented a mildly confused expression before saying, “The usual heritage test? We do no such tests unless asked. It seems clear to me that you were in a somehow different version of this world. There is no other explanation for the two separate identities and parentage, plus the differences we have already uncovered.”

“Well, according to the results I should have ownership of whatever assets Harry Potter has. As I have no intention of staying at Hogwarts, under the long nose of Dumbledore, what options do I have as to housing? Or will I need to purchase a home for myself? I rather doubt I can return from whence I came.”

“At the moment…” Irongut got back up to fetch something from the side room, then sat down and paged through the contents of a folio volume. “Any properties were destroyed during the war, so you shall need to purchase something. That will take some time for me to look into. As for vaults, there is the trust vault, the main Potter vault, and an artifact vault.”

He furrowed his brow. “Were all keys recalled?”

“Ah, apparently Albus Dumbledore has a key to the trust vault.”

“That is unacceptable,” he said. “Please recall it as quickly as possible. Are there records of him taking funds?”

“None listed,” Irongut said.

“Well, that’s good. I would like—actually, is this trust vault maintained over time to be reused for each heir or…?”

“It is maintained.”

“Then I could, for now, move the contents to the main vault. I see no point in worrying about use of that when I am an adult. Are the main and artifact vaults keyed or do they use blood?”

“Blood.”

“Excellent. When the trust key is reclaimed, it can either go in the main vault, or you can keep it safe, whichever is bank policy. I see no reason to hold onto it myself.”

Irongut nodded.

“I rented a room at the Leaky Cauldron. If you would send an owl when you have information on a possible property, I would appreciate it. Address it to Morgan Chiswell. I don’t doubt word will spread from Hogwarts about my alternate identity, but I have been Morgan Chiswell my entire life. So long as that would not cause issues with me accessing the main or artifact vault, I see no particular reason to change things.”

“I will do so. I can provide a certified copy of your identity as Harry James Potter. I can do the same for Morgan Linfred Chiswell, but as you were born in 1922 you would be seventy-three by our calendar, and you clearly are not. You still have every right to that identity.”

“I am twenty-five years old,” he said. “I’m not sure what that one spell would show, but I assume twenty five as those are the number of years I have lived. Well, I shall be on my way and await your owl. I have taken up enough of your time as it is. Please add the heritage parchment to the file, if you would.”

“Of course, Mr Chiswell.”

Morgan wandered back out of the bank and returned to the Leaky Cauldron, where he ordered and paid for a butterbeer, then headed up to his room. As an afterthought he tweaked his post wards to prevent getting any post for Harry Potter, just in case.

He would need to part with a fair amount of gold just to obtain books and such, history. He would also need to return to the bank purely to visit the artifact vault. That might have any number of books procured by the Potter family, any or all of which could be useful.

Back at the bank, unbeknownst to him as he set up wards for his stay, Irongut had scurried off to hold a meeting with bank officials.


	2. 02: 1994

## 02: 1994

He returned to the bank two days later, still surprised he had not been tracked down by a member of the Hogwarts staff. His time had been spent reading back issues of the _Daily Prophet_ and attempting to read between the lines, as well as history books purchased from Flourish & Blotts. This place had a decidedly different history than his own beyond a certain point.

He had also gotten his hands on a set of the tournament rules, by the simple expedient of requesting them from the Ministry. Unfortunately, he saw nothing that would allow him to back out, despite the circumstances. The rules did state what constituted “participation” in each of the three events, so that was something.

Irongut had located two properties he might be interested in. One was a flat down Tangent Alley, an offshoot of Diagon Alley. “If nothing else,” Irongut said, “it could be used as a place to apparate to or from, or to meet people in a more private setting without giving away the location of your main home.”

The second was a house up for sale in Yorkshire, a place called Cloke Mansion. It was along the lines of the usual pure-blood monstrosities, but reasonably priced. The Potter wealth could easily cover both properties and barely make a dent. “Your suggestions regarding the flat are wise. I ask you to obtain both. I would also like a ward assessment for each property. As soon as you have notice please do send an owl.”

Irongut assured him he would, and Morgan exited the goblin’s office so he could be escorted to the main vault for funds. He could poke around in the artifact vault later, perhaps the next trip.

It would be interesting to see how their assessment compared to his own once he had taken possession of both. He could rename the mansion. It did not matter if the muggles were aware of it and knew it by a different name. It might be better if they did. At least he had access to a fortune. His emergency stash was by no means small, but it would not last forever. Certain Potters had been excellent Potions Masters, and that meant money. The local Potter family had clearly not pissed it all away on fripperies.

He had also learned, during his research, that Dumbledore was the headmaster of Hogwarts. The current core teaching class consisted of Minerva McGonagall for Transfiguration and Head of Gryffindor, Filius Flitwick for Charms and Head of Ravenclaw, Severus Snape for Potions and Head of Slytherin, Pomona Sprout for Herbology and Head of Hufflepuff, and Aurora Sinistra for Astronomy.

Cuthbert Binns, for History, was one of the only names he recognized, and he was annoyed to learn that Binns was a ghost. Rubeus Hagrid was the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, unable to wield a wand due to some dust-up back during Riddle’s time at Hogwarts. Morgan only remembered him due to his half-giant status.

No other names were familiar to him, but that was rather beside the point. Dumbledore had been a condescending fool during his schooling, so chances were he would be one here.

Morgan could do as he liked until the twenty-forth of November, when the first task would be held. He had told the old man he would contact him after he had spoken with Gringotts, but that was as easy to do as showing up on the day in question. If the old man _needed_ to contact him, well, he could just send a letter in care of Gringotts, assuming he had the wit to think of it.

Back in his heavily-warded room at the Leaky Cauldron he sat upon the bed and sighed. He had had a decent life, and been ripped away from it. He just hoped his Sponsored would be all right. Morgan had done everything he could to make sure Tom could stand on his own, that he could thrive. He also hoped his Sponsored stayed the hell away from magical Britain. The man was brilliant; he should be fine.

Morgan, though, was feeling a bit lost. He had spent years protecting his Sponsored, was very fond of him, and now? Alone, in a world strange to him. He sent up thanks to Uncle Fleamont for teaching him as well as he had.

What of his Sponsored in this world?

Apparently he would be making a trip to the Ministry, to check the archives, in the hopes of finding something out. There was a Tom Riddle. Prefect, Head Boy even! What he did after that was unknown.

Instead he did some more digging and learned of the most recent war, the war which Harry Potter allegedly ended. The books he had purchased and the _Daily Prophet_ archives painted a certain picture, of a man most evil, and a “Light” side possibly too incompetent to truly prosecute a war. They were losing. They were nearly lost when whatever it was that happened that night happened. Harry Potter allegedly survived a killing curse after the deaths of James and Lily Potter.

And that was with the aurors authorized to use Unforgivables against the Death Eaters.

Much as he hated the system from the world he grew up in, he had to admit there were far fewer issues with dark lords rising—at least in magical Britain.

Still, he had always been able to find Tom in his world. Could he find him in this one?

‘I honestly do wonder at times about how places were named in this country,’ he thought as he walked through Little Hangleton.

His innate sensing ability when it came to his Sponsored had led him to this pissant little village. Why he could do it he had no idea, but it came in handy. It was, after all, part of the reason he had chosen Tom Riddle to be his Sponsored. Up on the hill overlooking the village was a manor house, where his sense was pointing him.

There was a cemetery in the village, with graves of various people with the name of Riddle, Thomas, Mary, and Tom among them. The dates for Tom were 1905-1943, so it was not his Tom. That and he knew his Sponsored’s parents’ names were Tom Riddle and Merope Gaunt.

He looked up at the manor house again and began to walk. Along the way he encountered a snake that looked quite intent on heading toward him.

«Halt,» he hissed. «How well do you know this area?»

The snake reared up in surprise. «You speak.»

«Yes, I do. I am following something rather nebulous, attempting to find Tom Riddle. I know he lives. He won’t know me, though, unfortunately. But that sense leads to that manor up there, on the hill.»

«My master? Why do you seek him?»

«Because I’m not from this world. Somehow, I was pulled here. In my world Tom Riddle and I were good friends. I wished to know where he was here, to know if we could also be friends.»

«I should ask him,» the snake hissed. «It would not do for you to arrive unannounced. Or unwanted. My master would not be pleased.»

«If I were to give you a parchment, a letter, would you be willing to deliver it to your master? I sincerely doubt my name could be spoken properly in Parseltongue. It would allow him to owl me if he chose, to let me know if I may visit.»

«I am willing, so long as I can watch you write it.»

Morgan chuckled. «Of course. That way you can be sure it is mere parchment and ink.» He conjured up a chair and desk so he could sit on something other than bare earth, and retrieved parchment, quill, and ink from his supplies.

«May I know your name?» he asked.

«Nagini, speaker.»

«Well met, Nagini.»

> #### Mr Riddle,
> 
> Allow me to introduce myself. I am Morgan Chiswell, and I have recently been dragged to this world due to the Triwizard Tournament. In my world it was 1947 and I was in Japan with my Sponsored, Tom Marvolo Riddle. I can only pray he is well after I was so abruptly stolen from our life.
> 
> In this world it appears I should be seventy-three years old, as I was born in 1922, though I have lived but twenty-five years. I have always been able to sense where Tom is, ever since we spent time in the same orphanage in London. It was part of why I chose him as my Sponsored; I did not wish for him what I saw as the fate of most muggle-borns and lesser half-bloods.
> 
> I know this is not the same world due to the differences I have already encountered, such as the fact that it is not the case here that all incoming first year students are sent to Gringotts to be given heritage tests, and it never has been. That and I do not appear to exist in this world as myself as my parents had no such son.
> 
> I find it all to be rather confusing. It was my wish to connect with the only person I felt any real fondness for, in the hope that you would be at least somewhat like my Sponsored. And then, once this damnable tournament was over, perhaps go to Japan. I have little interest in the affairs of the British wizarding world, for they appear to be as corrupt here as they were there.
> 
> I have asked your snake—familiar?—Nagini if she would deliver this letter for me, and she has agreed.
> 
> Please send an owl if it would be acceptable for me to meet with you.
> 
> #### Warm regards,  
>  Morgan Chiswell

He waited for the ink to dry rather than using a spell, simply so that Nagini would not become upset, then slipped it into a message tube. He did not wish the parchment to become damaged while held in Nagini’s mouth.

«Here is the letter, Nagini. Hopefully I will see you again. Thank you for your assistance.»

«You are welcome, speaker.» Nagini accepted the tube into her mouth and slithered off.

He took one more look at the area he stood at, then disapparated. There was a lot more reading he could do while waiting for a response, assuming he got one at all.

Right. The Ministry was rife with ineptitude, corruption, and apathy. Wonderful. At least, that’s what his survey of the building had revealed to him. Why was there a man in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office who barely knew anything about muggles? Why were there so many people in the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee who did not have the first clue about what constituted an actual muggle-worthy excuse for a magical accident? Because of course all accidents were due to exploding gas lines?

Why was there a pink toad parading around as a pure-blood when she was a lesser half-blood, and just exactly who had she sucked up to or bribed to become Senior Undersecretary to the Minister? That was one woman he would have liked to see auctioned off. Though, he admitted, her Sponsor would probably have used human transfiguration to make it all more palatable. He shuddered just thinking about it; the woman was just that vile.

His thoughts were interrupted by a tapping at the window of his flat. An owl was there, seeking entrance, a message tube attached to its leg. He apologized to the owl before checking to ensure there were no spells on the tube, then removed it from the bird. The owl flew off, so he closed the window and took a seat. Just to be extra cautious he slipped on a pair of silk gloves before opening the tube, and did a second round of testing.

> #### Mr Chiswell,
> 
> I understand you are a parselmouth from my dear Nagini. This is very interesting news. I had not thought there was another in this country. But then, you say you are from another world. I also find this term you use, Sponsored, to be … odd. It strikes me as a term to be wary of.
> 
> The tournament, you say? How peculiar. From what the _Daily Prophet_ has reported, it was one Harry Potter who was summoned, as the fourth, unexpected champion. Are you a relative, then, of the Potter family? To the best of my knowledge there are none left, unless perhaps there might be a handful in the Americas.
> 
> Yes, I would be open to meeting with you. Nagini can guide you in, as I do have wards up. Nagini will ensure you arrive without issue. I find myself quite curious as to the Tom Riddle you knew. It has not been an easy life here in Britain.
> 
> If you are able, I would be amenable to meeting with you tomorrow morning at 10 o’clock. Simply come to the last location you were at and Nagini shall meet you.
> 
> #### Regards,  
>  Tom Riddle

Morgan’s brow went up. Rather a chilly signature, but he had to admit the whole situation was peculiar. There was no reason whatsoever for Riddle to accept him with open arms, no reason for the man to simply take his word. He was a complete stranger.

He would also, because he was not stupid, be cautious on entering the house. He had a number of enchanted items that would warn him of various dangers, without having to openly cast spells and upset the snake. He would also have his wand in his incredibly well-enchanted holster, which would make it impossible to be removed by anyone but himself. And his back-up wand. And his untraceable portkey.

He might not have been a Slytherin, but that wasn’t to say he had not learned from their example. Years of watching their twisty minds at work had been an education all its own.

The next morning he had a late breakfast, read the paper (more of the usual silliness) and set out for his meeting. Nagini was waiting for him.

«Good morning, Nagini.»

«Hello, speaker. I shall guide you to my master.»

«I thank you.»

Nagini led him on a winding path up the hill and in through a side door. None of his items were warning him off, so he continued to follow her. What he did not expect to see, on entering a rather run-down sitting room, was a man who looked so very much like the same one he had been torn away from.

That, of course, made his suspicion rise. The Tom Riddle he knew had not been so vain as to shave fifty years off his appearance.

“Mr Chiswell, please have a seat.”

Still somewhat suspicious, he did so, taking the chair across from Riddle. “Morgan Chiswell. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Riddle.”

“You don’t look like what I expected for a Potter.”

His brow went up. “That might be explained by saying my father was the bastard son of a true-born Potter, via an illicit affair. However, my parents were married, so I did not suffer the full weight of that shame, and Uncle Fleamont was not disinclined to take me in when the results of my heritage test were known. He was not so pleased to find a lost son as to grant me the Potter name, however.”

“It is in poor taste to inquire, however…”

Morgan chuckled. “I don’t mind. Henry Potter had an affair with a pure-blood witch by the name of Megara Hartwell. The son, Edward, took his mother’s name. He then married Sophia, daughter of Caspar Crouch and Charis Black, producing me, though I do not know what they named me. I do not have a name common to either the Potter or Black families, so I can only assume they died very early and I somehow ended up in that muggle orphanage by mistake. When Uncle Fleamont took me in he gave me Linfred as a middle name, after the founding patriarch of the Potter family.

“I find it amusing and disconcerting that I am somehow both a pure-blood and a half-blood, for a visit to Gringotts to clear certain matters up revealed that in this world I am somehow Harry James Potter, fourteen years old, and the son of a pure-blood and muggle-born. It’s just a shame that Lily Evans never had a heritage test done, as then we might have a better idea what family she might have descended from.”

It was Riddle’s brow that went up that time. “I admit to being unfamiliar with this heritage test you mention. How could it possibly show that Miss Evans was of magical blood?”

“I suppose the pure-bloods of this world keep it quiet?” he murmured. “It depends on how far back that blood was. For instance, say that ten generations ago the hypothetical pure-blood family of Melton had a squib child. They chose to cast the child off to the muggle world rather than quietly killing it, and announced a still birth or some such.

“Ten generations on a muggle-born appears. However, the origin is too far back for the standard test to show the Melton connection. For the same hypothetical family, say the squib child was only two generations ago. The test would show the link to the Melton family. In the case of someone like Lily Evans, it is possible, depending on how far back it was, that her originating family or families would have appeared. As it did not for me when I took the test here, I know it must have been at least three generations back starting from me, and quite possibly much older.

“In my world, the only world I’ve known, it clearly showed who my parents and grandparents were, thus I was both named a pure-blood and a member of the Potter family most prominently, rather than Crouch or Black or Hartwell, as it came down through the Potter line in a direct branch.”

“How is it you are a parselmouth, then?” Riddle asked, looking most curious.

Morgan shrugged. “I have no idea with any certainty. I’ve always known it—or rather, I’ve known since I was quite young. My Tom was also a parselmouth, so we had something in common at the orphanage. Not well liked, either of us. I never let Uncle Fleamont know, not with him being considered on the Light side of Grey. I never let anyone aside from Tom know, and I advised Tom not to let it spread about himself. I imagine it would have invited all sorts of complications, which neither of us needed.”

“Will you explain this term, Sponsored?”

He nodded, then sighed. “It is not nice. My world was a very unhappy one. I will explain, but it might be better to share some memories with you, so you can see it for yourself. I can project them, but then you wouldn’t be able to be certain they weren’t tampered with. Still, it’d be easier to show rather than attempt to explain. How about we start with projections, and if you prefer, we can use a pensieve for ones that require more immersion?”

Riddle slowly nodded.

> Morgan found himself being taken to Diagon Alley, to the bank there. It was up ahead, a slight tilted building of gleaming white. The man escorting him kept giving him worrying looks, licking his lips, and he was wondering if it would have been better to have run with Tom the second the subject of magic had come up.

“I do not like the way that man is looking at you,” Riddle commented.

“Yes. It was my first clue that I might be entering a situation not to my liking or advantage.”

> Inside he was shocked to get his first look at the beings who ran the bank: goblins. They appeared to be surly and even vicious. He was pushed over to a desk, then led off to an office, where he was enjoined to provide a minimum of seven drops of blood.
> 
> Once the potion had been stirred, the quill had imbibed it, and the parchment written out, it was clear his escort was shocked. A moment later the man shrugged and took a seat, not saying a word. Morgan was left to be bewildered, as he had not been allowed to see the results.
> 
> The goblin wrote out a short missive and had it sent off, and they all sat there silently until at last a knock came at the door, and a man was let in. Morgan was curious, as the man rather resembled himself.
> 
> The man approached the desk and carefully read through the parchment, then took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “I shall take responsibility for the boy.”
> 
> Morgan’s escort got up and left at that point, and the new man turned to look at him directly.
> 
> “I am Fleamont Potter, and you, child, are a lost son of a branch of the Potter family. I am your family now. You will come with me.”
> 
> Without seeing any other options he said, “Yes, sir.”

“So that was my introduction to the wizarding world,” he said. “Uncle Fleamont took me in as a branch member and gave me a middle name. He also purchased a proper pure-blood wardrobe for me, all the supplies I would need, and so forth. I was taken to his home and given a bedroom, as well as the services of a house-elf. It was made clear to me, however, that the elf was not mine. I was given a basic education in comportment, etiquette, and introduced to the … right sort, then sent off to Hogwarts, where I realized the true horror of my new situation.”

Riddle’s brow went back up.

“I was Sorted into Ravenclaw. I could tell from the tone of Uncle Fleamont’s reply to my letter that he was not pleased, exactly, but neither was he terribly upset. I assume he would have preferred my being Sorted to Gryffindor. I never asked. It was after the first week that I started seeing things which turned my stomach, where I truly began to understand exactly how my new world worked.”

> Morgan was on his way to Transfiguration when odd noises caught his attention. Someone was crying, and others were laughing. He carefully moved forward, toward the sound, and peered into the crack between a slightly ajar door and the frame. There were several older boys in there, and the looks on their faces were not ones he could interpret.
> 
> What he could interpret was the actions of one. A young boy was there, fully unclothed, heaving sobs of pain and humiliation and crying a pool of tears onto the desk he was bent over. The one boy was thrusting into him. The other boys were laughing and making bets on how long it would take the first to finish.
> 
> “Don’t take too long, Melrose,” one said. “You know we only have Bebbly’s Sponsored for so long today, and we all want a turn. It’s always so nice seeing the fresh ones cry. They’re best new, before they get used to our cocks inside them.”
> 
> “I don’t know,” said another. “I rather like the older ones. They’re so eager to please and they’ve properly learned their place in our world. Why, they practically beg us to use them.”
> 
> Another snorted. “You know I prefer the ones trained to love pain. That’s why I like the fresh ones, too. The crying is sublime. And watching them try to walk afterward is most amusing.”
> 
> A very pale Morgan carefully backed away and slipped off.

Riddle had also gone pale.

Morgan nodded. “It was a nightmare. I spent a lot of time carefully observing my surroundings. It was thus: any child who was deemed a muggle-born or lesser half-blood was essentially auctioned off to the incoming fifth year pure-bloods. OWL year, they … needed the stress relief. Any muggle-raised greater half-blood was subjected to the same. Those children, boys and girls all, were sold into the service of their new owners.

“The whole idea started innocently enough, from what I could find. The Sponsor was responsible for introducing those children to their new world. The Sponsor’s family would provide housing, food, clothing, supplies, and education on culture and traditions. They would also choose that child’s spouse.”

“And it was corrupted,” Riddle said.

“Very much so. Over time people started getting ideas about breeding. The pure-bloods realized that their control over who those children married allowed them to institute a careful breeding program, with the idea of creating new pure-blood lines, to eventually widen the breeding pool for their own children. They started introducing contracts. As they became the magical guardians of those children, they could sign those contracts on their behalf, or give ‘permission’ for the child to do so and instead sign as a witness.”

“And the children, knowing no better, did so,” Riddle said.

Morgan nodded. “And it corrupted further, to the point that those Sponsored became the sexual play-toys of anyone the Sponsor was willing to let use them, usually as a part of some deal. Even when they didn’t share, the child was almost always used as a toy for sex or pain. The only thing a Sponsor couldn’t do was impede the child’s ability to attend their classes and advance in magic, or maim them.”

Riddle gave him an opaque look. “And you were Tom Riddle’s Sponsor.”

Morgan nodded again. “By the time I finished my fourth year I was almost numb to it, but I never lost my horror of the practice. And I well remembered how old Tom Riddle was and that he shared my ability of being a parselmouth and having the same instances of accidental magic I’d had. For the first time ever I asked my uncle for something, and that was for Tom as my Sponsored.

“He was on the list all incoming fifth years received. I knew I couldn’t let … that … happen to him. So I quite seriously asked Uncle Fleamont if I could be the boy’s Sponsor. I don’t know why he said yes and I didn’t care. He did tell me the money was coming out of the trust he had established for me. I didn’t care. I would make my own way, preferably as far from Britain as I could.”

“In Japan?”

“I completed my third mastery there, yes, but that’s getting ahead of things,” he said. “Tom was brought to the Potter mansion and handed over to me. He was at least relieved to see me, as I was the only familiar face he had. I told him everything that could have happened to him had I not been his Sponsor.

“He was disgusted, even if he didn’t entirely understand what I meant by some of it. I told him in no uncertain terms that no one could touch him without my permission, and that I would never give it. I lucked out, after all. Uncle Fleamont could easily have decided against taking me in as family and I could easily have been like all those other children, a toy for the whims of the pure-bloods, despite being a pure-blood myself.

“I explained that he would automatically go to Ravenclaw because that is where I was Sorted, and that he would reside in a room with me. I had been learning everything I possibly could about warding and planned to take it as a mastery, so I would do everything I could to keep the two of us safe, him more than me, as even without the Potter name, I was still considered a true Potter.”

> After the start-of-term feast, during which Tom had sat by his side at the Ravenclaw table, Morgan escorted his Sponsored to the tower, where they boy was introduced to the rather silly method of entry. It was almost hilariously arrogant to assume that no one but a Ravenclaw could solve riddles, and not at all reassuring as to their safety while inside. It was one of the reasons he had become fixated on warding.
> 
> Morgan waited through the usual speech to the first years, then escorted Tom to their shared room, which was as heavily warded as he could make it (it required a drop of blood from Tom to be keyed into them). It was a soothing combination (to Morgan, anyway) of blue, silver, and copper, with two single beds.
> 
> “Some of the Sponsors are really cruel,” he said. “I’ve seen Sponsored made to sleep on the floor like a pet, or even worse. Choose either bed, it really doesn’t matter. We each have a dresser, book shelf, and desk as you can see, and there’s an en suite. I’ve done as much as I can in terms of warding, but as I learn more I’ll do more.”
> 
> Tom turned worried eyes on him. “But what about when…?”
> 
> “When I get my NEWTs?” he asked. “I plan to stay for a mastery, two if necessary. I will not leave you here alone. I don’t think they would touch you as you would still—” He rolled his eyes. “—belong to me, but I’d rather not take that chance. If I work really hard during the remainder of my time here I could fit in two, Warding and Defense. Spend as little of my trust fund as I can manage, so we have money to leave with.”
> 
> “To where? Is it like here everywhere?”
> 
> Morgan shook his head. “Not from what I’ve found. I was thinking Japan, clear on the other side of the world. We’d have to learn the language, but once we were there I could study for another mastery, you could obtain one… During my reading about Mahōtokoro I’ve learned that the Japanese really only care about two things, not using the Dark Arts in their country, and maintaining the International Statute of Secrecy. We should be safe there. Or at least, safer than here.”
> 
> “…Are we letting anyone know we can speak Japanese, once we’ve learned it?” Tom asked.
> 
> “I don’t think so. I don’t want anyone to have any idea we would go there. They might still find out, but we would both be adults in the magical world. They would have no reason to recall us. Uncle Fleamont has already told me he has no intention to secure a match for me. I think he finds the idea distasteful, because my father was a bastard child. I’m still surprised he agreed to take me in. We can also use post wards to make it impossible for owls to find us, or only specific ones.”
> 
> “And I already have one directing any post to me to you.”
> 
> “Right. Supposedly so you cannot be subverted.” Morgan rolled his eyes again. “I think it’s so the Sponsors can ensure their Sponsored never see something they don’t approve of, like the radical thought that you are people just like us and shouldn’t be treated like slaves.”
> 
> Tom scowled, but then went neutral in expression. “Thank you,” he said, “for watching out for me.”
> 
> “I knew you had to be magical, Tom. The second I saw your name on the list…”
> 
> “I’m surprised you didn’t find a way to warn me so I could try to run away.”
> 
> Morgan shook his head. “I asked Uncle Fleamont about that, in a rather roundabout way. I was told that the moment that a magical child is noticed they are tracked. That tracking is not removed until they have taken their NEWT exams. Had I warned you and you had run, they would only have dragged you back. I thought it would be safer to just wait until I had a chance to ask for that one thing. I was the absolute model of good behavior and good breeding, all for that moment.”
> 
> “And it worked.”
> 
> “Thank Merlin for that.”
> 
> Tom nodded and shoved his trunk over to one of the beds, then started to unpack.

“Silver and copper?” Riddle said, his expression one of mild puzzlement.

“I don’t like bronze,” Morgan said with a smile. “I don’t like yellow gold, either. I prefer silvery metals and the pinkish-orange of copper. I saw no reason to wholeheartedly adopt the colours of my house in my room, even if I had to wear them. I like plenty of colours, but I don’t like yellow or red at all, and I wasn’t about to parade around in colours of another house, so green was out.”

“Despite your eye colour.”

“Despite my eye colour,” he agreed. They were blue at the outside and yellow at the center, making for an almost green shade at a distance. Up close it was obvious they were not. “I should get back, though. I have another appointment with Gringotts about a house purchase. Would it be all right if I left some memories with you? If you do not have a pensieve I can give you the loan of one. You would also be able to verify they are not tampered with.”

“That is acceptable,” Riddle said.

He nodded and retrieved both a pensieve and a small crate filled with vials containing memories. “They are numbered. It was easier than pinpointing exact dates. There are a fair few, and too many are quite unpleasant. There are multiple memories of Tom and I, even one of when I was ripped away from our home. Please send an owl after you have finished and would like to restart our conversation. For now, however, I really must be going. Goblins left waiting are not happy beings.”

«Nagini,» Riddle said, «please escort our guest out safely.»

«Yes, master.»

“Farewell,” he said, then followed the snake out.

On arrival at Diagon Alley he decided that the meeting had gone fairly well. Nothing had been tried against him. He continued to hold some hope that the Tom Riddle of this dimension could be his friend. It was easier for him in the end to have simply provided vials of memories. He had lived those events already and had no wish to watch them again. It had been bad enough just pulling copies, as he did have to mentally mark off start and end points.

For now, though, he had some goblins to speak with about a house.


	3. 03: 1994

## 03: 1994

> Morgan stopped dead at a door he noticed on one wall of the corridor leading to the boys’ side of the Ravenclaw tower. Next to it was a much smaller door, less than half height. “What is this?” he muttered.
> 
> An older boy coming up behind him laughed and said, “Take a look inside.”
> 
> Morgan warily opened the normal door and stared. There were straw pads scattered around, what looked like a hole in the corner, and a trough with water in it. “I don’t understand.”
> 
> “Well you are only a first year,” the older boy said. “We call it the kennel. There’s also one on the other side, for the Sponsored girls. Any Sponsor who feels like it can make their Sponsored sleep in there. It’s a way of saying the ones inside are free to be used that night by anyone in the mood. The smaller door is how the Sponsored enter and leave.”
> 
> “Ah, I see. Thank for you explaining,” Morgan said slowly.
> 
> “Sure, kid. Who knows, it might even be you putting a Sponsored in there some nights, or making use of the ones inside.”

> Morgan slowed as he heard sounds coming from the kennel, then stopped as one of the older boys pushed their Sponsored down and gave them a swift kick toward the smaller door. The Sponsored reluctantly pushed through it—it functioned as a flap—and disappeared inside. The older boy continued on to his room. 
> 
> Morgan’s face scrunched up in dismay, but he just couldn’t help opening the normal door to see what was going on in there. He wished he hadn’t. One Sponsored was being fucked from both ends. One was being whipped and hit even harder if they refused to say they loved it and wanted more. The one who had just entered had his clothing practically ripped off him before a cock was shoved into his mouth.
> 
> He shut the door and walked away, trembling with the knowledge that it could have been him. He absolutely did not want to know what went on in the girls’ kennel.

> The NEWT exams were over and the seventh years were having a party in the common room. It was a disaster from Morgan’s point of view and he vowed to stay in his room the entire night. Most of them had skipped dinner, having gotten the house-elves to deliver food. Some of the Sponsored were still eating off plates on the floor—without their hands, naturally.
> 
> There were far too many naked bodies in the common room. There were far too many Sponsored with cocks in available orifices, or being whipped, or paddled, or made to please one of the seventh year pure-blood girls (not intercourse, never that, because their fathers and future husbands would never stand for it).
> 
> The occasional greater half-blood had been invited to join from what he could see on his trip toward the boys’ corridor, those who were well enough connected.

> He had the misfortune to be on his way to the library when he ran across a room not used for class, but certainly used for other activities. The door was wide open, so it was not as though he had to creep up to spy on what was happening.
> 
> Morgan could see what he thought was a sixth year Sponsored in there along with a number of much younger ones. There were also a lot of Sponsors, though at least one had to be the younger brother of a pure-blood boy given that Morgan knew the sixth year was the Sponsored of Timitus Blakely, and he had already finished schooling, not having stayed for a mastery, having gone straight into his father’s business—or so gossip said.
> 
> The sixth year seemed to be deliriously happy to not only service two Sponsors at once, but also to have his chest whipped by a third. The poor Sponsored’s cock was rock hard and kept jerking a little, like he wanted to shoot, but there was an odd ring at the base of it that Morgan didn’t understand. He was probably being used as an object lesson for the younger Sponsored, who watched with frightened faces and teary eyes.
> 
> He looked away and resumed his journey to the library.

> “Riddle,” Morgan said as he stopped outside the kennel. “This door here, never open it, never go inside. There is another set of doors on the girls’ side and the same applies.”
> 
> “Yes, Master Chiswell. I remember what you said earlier.”
> 
> “Good. Let’s get to breakfast, then.”

> “Is there anything you need help with this evening?” Morgan asked.
> 
> “No, I completed my assignments during free time, in the library. No one bothered me in there.”
> 
> He nodded, feeling relieved. “Are you in the mood to work on Japanese, then?”
> 
> Tom smiled. “Of course, Morgan. The sooner we’re fluent the better.”
> 
> “And the moment we have your NEWT results we can leave this godforsaken place.”
> 
> “My History of Magic essay was awful.”
> 
> “Oh?” Morgan glanced over as he gathered up their supplies for language learning.
> 
> “Yes,” Tom said, scowling. “It was all about the Sponsorship system and why it was so wonderful.”
> 
> Morgan sighed and set some books on the table. “I remember that one. My essay was a pack of lies from start to finish. It’s nothing more than slavery and brainwashing. I’m ashamed to be a British wizard.”
> 
> Tom’s expression softened. “We’ll be gone soon enough. Are you sure these lessons aren’t cutting too much into your OWL studies, though? I know you need them to get the right NEWT classes.”
> 
> “It’ll be fine. If necessary we cheat a little on the other side and become fully fluent there. Practice like this means we don’t forget things. An hour, and then if you like you can quiz me on my studies.”
> 
> Tom smiled again and nodded. “All right. Let’s begin, then.”

> Morgan looked at the post with a slight sense of trepidation, but at look at Tom’s face had him open it. Inside were his exam scores. Each one was an O. He smiled in relief and handed it over to his Sponsored, whose eyes flicked over the writing and then smiled as well.
> 
> “Excellent job, Morgan!” Tom said, handing the parchment back.
> 
> “Now it’s time for a bit of a break, then NEWT preparation.”
> 
> “I don’t want you driving yourself into the ground, Morgan.”
> 
> “I’ll do what it takes, Tom. I’ll slow down once we’re out of here, I promise. We can do stupid things like visit muggle and magical attractions, and learn more about a different culture. It’s not like we learned anything useful at the orphanage.”
> 
> “A culture that’s not insane, hopefully.”
> 
> “I’m sure they’ll have their own quirks, but… It’ll already be a bit strange considering that Japan is one of the Axis alliance powers. Most of Europe is a mess right now, Asia isn’t much better. I don’t like the idea of heading west, though. MACUSA has some very firm ideas about muggle-magical relations.”
> 
> “But we can keep it as a fallback plan,” Tom said. “If things haven’t calmed down by the time we’re ready to go, then we head west. Maybe Canada? They speak English there. I know you didn’t want an English-speaking country because it’s too obvious, but… We don’t really have time to learn a third language while still learning the second.”
> 
> Morgan leaned his head back and rubbed his face. “Axis declared war on this country before we even finished the school year. We need to stay away from any cities, the coast, which shouldn’t be an issue given where we’re normally allowed to be. I’m just glad nothing happened while we were in London on our way home. I’m not looking forward to having to go back through there.”
> 
> “At least the _Daily Prophet_ is reporting on it.”
> 
> “I would prefer muggle newspapers for that, but we have no way to get them unless we walk into the village, and you know Uncle Fleamont would not approve. At least most of the time we should be safe. They’ve no reason to attack here, or at the school. We’re nowhere important.”

> “Good lord, the Americans have entered the war for real,” he said, having managed to make good enough friends with one of the Hogwarts house-elves to persuade it to fetch in muggle newspapers every so often. He squashed down any feelings of guilt at the theft it must take. Or maybe it was getting them from the Muggle Studies classroom. Who knew?
> 
> Tom rolled his eyes. “That’s lovely. Canada is looking better all the time.”
> 
> “I already thought Hitler and Mussolini were psychotic, but now Japan has done something brilliantly stupid.” He set the paper down and ran a hand over his face. “They bombed Pearl Harbor and killed thousands of American soldiers in little over an hour.”
> 
> Tom’s face paled. “So many?”
> 
> “I think, yes, we need to focus on Canada instead. At least at first. There’s no telling how things are going to go, or how long this war will last. I would like to continue learning Japanese, though.”
> 
> “That’s fine,” Tom said softly. “How about you quiz me so we can take our minds off this.”
> 
> “Sure, Tom. What shall we start with?”

> When the post arrived it contained results for the both of them. Separate letters, of course. He handed Tom his OWL results and opened his own, though he already knew he had passed the Warding exam. This should just be the certification; it was. He looked up to see Tom’s version of a beaming smile, which was more like a quirk at the side of his mouth.
> 
> “Good, then?”
> 
> Tom nodded and handed them over. Straight O’s across the board. “Excellent, Tom. You’re going to set the world on fire someday.”
> 
> “Not literally, I hope.”
> 
> “Always such as wiseass,” he replied fondly. “Seriously, excellent job. And because I already knew you’d do well…” He set both sheets of parchment down and headed for his bookshelf. He had owl-ordered ingredients for a gift for his Sponsored and hidden it inside a false book. He returned and placed the book down, then opened it. “I got what I would need for an animagus potion for you.”
> 
> Tom’s eyes went wide. “But it’s illegal for a Sponsored to become an animagus.”
> 
> “Do you honestly think I care about that? Or that I’m worried you would tell and get us both in trouble? This can only help you. It’s highly uncomfortable to deal with the mandrake leaf—trust me on that—but this could be an excellent tool in your arsenal.”
> 
> Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Trust you on that? How did you get that past me? What is your form?”
> 
> Morgan smirked and transformed. Into a western green mamba.
> 
> Tom stared down at him in wonder, then laughed softly as Morgan re-assumed his human form. “I wonder if that’s why you’re a parselmouth.”
> 
> He shrugged. “It’s possible. I like that snakes can be very sneaky, though with my colouration I’m better off in greenery. Highly venomous, though.”
> 
> “What do I need to do?”
> 
> “First, keep a mandrake leaf in your mouth for a full month.”
> 
> Tom grimaced.

> They were in British Columbia when the war officially ended with Japan’s surrender, though they only did that after the US dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Their post wards were holding up nicely; everyone probably thought they were dead, which was just dandy in his opinion.
> 
> On receipt of Tom’s NEWT scores and his Defense Mastery certification he had gone with Tom to Diagon Alley, to quietly empty his vault into his secret stash, bought some essentials, then portkeyed them out of the country.
> 
> “Maybe we can still go there,” he said. “Next year. Preferably more northerly. I can’t imagine either of us would want to be anywhere near where those bombs were dropped. I assume it will be nasty. Well, and all the destruction.”
> 
> Tom hummed, having a fine time eating a ridiculously sugary concoction. Where all that sugar had come from Morgan simply didn’t know, and he wasn’t going to ask.
> 
> “Hopefully the maps I obtained will still be useful. It would be a real shame to have spent all that time on the language and not get to see the country.”
> 
> Tom hummed again, then said, “You planning to go for another mastery?”
> 
> “I was considering doing Potions. What about you?”
> 
> “Warding. You’ve made me realize just how important it is. The war didn’t exactly hurt, either, though I rather doubt wards would stop one of those bombs that got dropped.”
> 
> “Hm, no, I don’t suppose they would. But a ward might be able to filter out any contaminants. The papers have been going on about nuclear fallout, whatever that is. All sorts of nastiness for the people too far away to be vaporized, but too close to not get hit with the aftereffects.”
> 
> “Perhaps I could focus on that as a project,” Tom said thoughtfully.
> 
> Morgan hummed.

> “How you managed to get a Potions Mastery in such a short time,” Tom said, shaking his head.
> 
> They were on Ōshima Island, which was south and a bit west of Tokyo. There was a thriving community of magicals in the forest on the northern end of the island, which itself had been heavily warded to keep the muggles from even thinking of extending their roads into it, or building there. The density of the forest also helped to disguise them, in addition to the wards, from anyone seeing the modest surface buildings scattered all over the place.
> 
> “Well, once we started talking about the contamination from those bombs, I set my mind toward thinking of a potion that could flush it from the system while you looked into warding against it. The effects of radiation are quite nasty. The Japanese certainly didn’t seem to mind when I came up with something that helped, even if it wasn’t a total cure.”
> 
> Japanese food was both interesting and sometimes frightening (why were they so happy to eat raw fish he would never understand), but it was fun trying new things. The magicals had it better than the muggles in terms of food variety, but when a person could multiply consumables with a simple spell and feed many with barely any effort…
> 
> And then of course a swirling vortex of light opened up behind him, just as he was about to get up in order to hunt down something to eat, and sucked him into it.
> 
> Tom jumped up so fast he bashed a knee into the underside of the table and yelled his name rather than giving in to a shout of pain. Unfortunately, the injury made it impossible for him to do more than struggle toward him as he vanished.

> #### Mr Chiswell,
> 
> I have finished reviewing the memories you provided. Some were indeed quite disturbing, as you warned. The rest were illuminating. If you are available perhaps you would return to the same place tomorrow morning at 10 o’clock. Nagini would again guide you in.
> 
> If this is not possible, reply with a suitable day.
> 
> #### Regards,  
>  Tom Riddle

‘Still a chilly signature,’ he thought, ‘but perhaps it’s just something he never thought particularly mattered.’

He arrived the next morning after a late breakfast (a much nicer one than he could have purchased at the Leaky Cauldron) and was again guided into the manor house by Nagini after an exchange of greetings.

“Mr Chiswell,” Riddle greeted, then waved a hand at the seat opposite. The pensieve and crate were on the table, waiting for him.

As he sat he returned the greeting with a simple, “Mr Riddle.”

“I find myself in an awkward position,” Riddle said. There was long silence, during which Morgan simply waited. “I do not expect you to like what I have to say.” There was another pause. “This is not my natural appearance, but that should be no surprise to you. I was impressed with your relationship—friendship—with the Tom Riddle of your world. You are aware of the most recent war?”

Morgan nodded. “Yes, from my research into the differences between the worlds. I found it curious that there was precious little to explain or even hint at what the actual battleground was. How can any thinking being choose a side if they do not understand what is at stake? Something as specious as supporting rights of pure-bloods or muggle-borns… It says little. Neutrality makes more sense when there is nothing to support.

“Coming from my personal experience, I would lean toward muggle-born rights, but then there is again nothing to say exactly what is being fought for. After all, it was to provide support for muggle-borns and muggle-raised that saw my world’s magical Britain descend into barbarity. The same is true of pure-blood rights. What rights? What is being threatened? Nothing I read actually addressed the heart of the matter.

“And the so-called Light side was losing terribly, and was saved by a Deus Ex Machina?” He snorted softly. “I am aware that Albus Dumbledore was a leader for the Light, but was clearly incapable of being a leader, regardless of his alleged victory over Grindelwald. Even during my short visit to the school Dumbledore came across as manipulative.

“He intended to Sort me into a House—most likely hoping for Gryffindor—and expect me, who has no records of ever attending school anywhere, to suddenly learn three plus years of education in a few short weeks, all in time to compete? His shifty expression said it all. The man is either a complete idiot or has bought into his own image. Or he’s secretly not so Light after all and the image is carefully cultivated to deflect suspicion.”

His brow went up at the minute change in expression on Riddle’s face.

“I was Sorted into Slytherin my first year.”

“Oh dear,” he murmured.

“Yes. It was not until it came out that I am a parselmouth that I received anything approaching respect. In some ways it was not much better than the orphanage, and I did not have a Morgan Chiswell to stand with me in either. You’re right that Dumbledore is manipulative. He started that the day he came to bring me my letter.”

“I always found it interesting that Dumbledore defended the offenders,” he said. “It was always the ones who defended themselves who were seen as wrong. Somehow the offenders walked away with a slap on the wrist. I don’t know what is wrong with that man’s brain.”

“Did you know he was Grindelwald’s lover back when they were young?” Riddle said.

Morgan’s eyes widened. “Truly?”

“They planned and plotted together, how to take over the world, For the Greater Good. It was only when an argument broke out, triggered by Dumbledore’s brother due to perceived neglect of their sister on Dumbledore’s part, that things changed, as the sister was caught up in it and killed. They claim no one knows who cast the spell that did it.”

Morgan frowned. “Because pensieves are impossible to find or something? Any idiot can check a memory and find the truth.”

Riddle nodded. “The sister was killed, Grindelwald fled the country, and Dumbledore remained, eventually becoming part of the staff at Hogwarts. The sister was a tragic tale. She was spotted by some muggle boys performing accidental magic. They swarmed her, questioned her, attacked her. It traumatized her so badly she lost any semblance of control over her magic and had to be carefully attended.

“It was bad enough that she accidentally killed her own mother. Her father had gone after those boys and landed himself in Azkaban. It fell to Albus to care for his sister, and he had only just sat his NEWT exams.”

“I can see where that could go badly,” he commented.

“A young man with his whole life ahead of him, now chained down to the care of his unstable sister… I imagine he resented it. If one takes into account what Grindelwald went on to do, one can extrapolate that he and Dumbledore’s idea of pillow talk was to debate the best ways to go about world domination. But without concerted effort and digging, we may never know. It does seem to be true, based on available evidence, that once Dumbledore makes up his mind about something, he sticks to it.”

“So how did he react to you?”

“I made the mistake of telling him I could talk to snakes, for one thing.”

Morgan winced. “And he presumably let that colour everything. Subsequently being Sorted into Slytherin would not have helped matters.”

“Not in the least, and Transfiguration was a core class. He was always suspicious of me.”

“I will assume for the moment that this world’s magical Britain is as insular as mine was, and therefore parselmouths around the world—because it is ludicrous to assume but a single family line held that talent—who did good works were blithely ignored.”

Riddle nodded. “That sets the scene. Between his suspicion and the troubles I suffered inside Slytherin, even after it getting out that I was a parselmouth, things did not go particularly well. It may even have hurt that I was an excellent student.”

Morgan, for his part, was rapidly slotting various facts together in the background. Riddle became Voldemort through whatever series of events, and was presumably responsible for starting the war, culminating with the killing the parents of one Harry James Potter. His long experience with his own Tom Riddle lent weight to the idea that there was far more to the story than superficialities, that and Riddle’s own somewhat diffident manner.

The man had not, with the knowledge that Morgan was considered Harry Potter in this world, immediately gone on the offensive against him at their first meeting. Or he had, but the constitution of that offensive was yet to be understood. A genuine lead-in to a plea for help? Or the use of a prior relationship to fool him into something? Deciding that he was feeling daring he said, “And somewhere in between having been brought into magical Britain and now you somehow became a dark lord.”

Riddle’s eyes narrowed for just a trice. “Yes.”

“All right. I am led to believe that Dumbledore had something to do with that, his inflexibility of thinking, and his past relationship with one who became a dark lord. Just because the two parted ways does not mean Dumbledore would have entirely abandoned his presumed desire for world domination. You may not be the Tom I knew, but I can hope you are at least somewhat like him. I remain curious.”

Riddle nodded after a long pause. “I am uncertain to this day exactly what happened. I learned that the House Founder, Salazar Slytherin was a parselmouth, one of the most famous. I learned, based on my research into wizarding families, that it was possible I was related to the Gaunt line, which itself was connected to the Slytherin line.”

“Hence the parselmouth ability,” he said. “Do you not have the form of a snake, then? Or did you never attempt it?”

“I did not attempt it. It would not have occurred to me at that point it could be an explanation. I was also not knowledgeable enough at that time to have a hint of an idea that the goblins might be able to provide assistance in determining my ancestry. What I do know, and which I passed off as the general atmosphere inside Slytherin and what they were demonstrably capable of, was that I gained a strong interest in the Dark Arts.”

“May we fast forward a bit for the moment?” he asked. “You at some point began to adopt the persona of a dark lord—I don’t know what name you may have used, as all the papers and books ever have to say is that silly ‘You-Know-Who’ sort of thing, and were led by whatever means to attack the Potter family, which signaled your downfall, with only the boy surviving. That anyone knew of, that is, or assumed.”

“A prophecy,” Riddle said. “A follower overheard part of one and brought that to me. It pointed at two families, Potter and Longbottom. And because a follower just so happened to be their Secret Keeper, I went after them first.”

“Prophecy? I am already getting ideas about that, but please continue.”

“I have yet to determine if my follower’s presence there was serendipity or misfortune. What was reported to me was the following: The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.”

“Taken at face value and without discernment, ignoring the myriad nuances capable of being distinguished for terms such as ‘vanquished’ and ‘seventh month’, that seems rather straightforward in meaning. I know from the announcements made at the time that both families had a child born in July of 1980. I presume this prophecy was given prior to those births.”

“It was. Both couples were part of an organization of Dumbledore’s, a vigilante group called the Order of the Phoenix.”

“How pretentious,” he muttered.

The corner of Riddle’s mouth quirked in a smile for a moment. “One of their number came to my side, probably because he was a bit spineless, despite being a Gryffindor, and also quite jealous. All that remained from that confrontation was my disembodied self, my wand, which the follower scurried away with, and my robes.”

“Which begs the question of how you sit before me, seemingly normal.”

“Indeed. And I will get to that.”

Morgan held up a finger and ran a whole lot of scenarios in his head, using everything he had ever read and retained. His world had been a lot less fussy over the idea of what was forbidden magics. “Ah, a Horcrux.”

Riddle’s mouth quirked again. “Yes. And knowing what I know now, I either completely lost my head at one point from the sheer weight of persecution, or I was nudged into it. I will save you the trouble of figuring out why you ended up in this world. Harry Potter was entered into the tournament by a follower of mine.”

“Because Harry Potter would be required to properly … re-embody you?”

Riddle nodded. “Which, now, presents something of a quandary.”

“Because as far as I’m concerned, you have done nothing to me. I could be only the expression of this world’s Harry Potter, rather than him directly. Had my heritage test in my world shown the duality of two distinct identities, I would have expected more of a reaction from my escort, the goblin, and Uncle Fleamont. I lean toward thinking that the Harry Potter of this world died, and I was pulled here to be that counterpart or expression.”

“Precisely. I am not at odds with you. I am not even technically at odds with Harry Potter. The ritual I intended to use would call for the blood of my enemy, and who better to pick than the one who had a hand, however tenuously, in my earlier defeat.” Riddle held up a hand to forestall comment yet. “Even that is specious, due to the actions of the boy’s mother that night. However, I am now faced with you, someone who held a close friendship with a different me, and is inclined to the courtesy of listening and coming to reasoned conclusions rather than jumping into assumptions based on precious little evidence.”

“Then I imagine you will not be too upset when I put in a very lackluster effort in this damnable tournament.”

“Hardly. It was something of a desperate act to begin with. I scarce believed it would work at all, but I did wonder if the Potter boy was alive and simply being secured somewhere by Dumbledore, being trained.”

“Which would be plausible if Dumbledore was convinced you would return,” he said. “Do you even particularly like this house?”

Riddle blinked at the abrupt change of topic. “No, I do not. It is the former home of my muggle father and his family. It has changed hands a number of times since their deaths, but none have ever come to inhabit it.”

Morgan shook his head. “Not much of an investment, then.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I recently purchased a home. It’s just me and a house-elf I purchased. I do not doubt your wards, but you cannot be especially comfortable in this mouldering old wreck. Honestly, why purchase a property if you can’t be bothered to do anything with it?” he said, rolling his eyes. “In addition, if a ritual is required to re-embody you, is it logical to do so in the former home of a relative? If Dumbledore indeed suspects you will return…”

“I can follow that line of thought,” Riddle said with a nod. “And as suspicious as he was of me I would not put it past him to have acquired my blood and made sure I was unaware of it, all for the purpose of establishing my lineage. I cannot afford to assume he has not. By that reasoning, I should not do such a ritual here.”

“If you are willing, you can relocate to my house. I have not spent much time there, though I have gone over the wards and added my own. I have primarily stayed at the flat I purchased on Tangent Alley, though that could easily change. As the goblin I deal with pointed out, the flat makes for an easy place to apparate to and from with regard to Diagon Alley, without people necessarily being aware of my comings and goings.”

“I do have a house-elf. Though I was disembodied, the elf could sense I was still around in some form and has stood by me.”

“Excellent.”


	4. 04: 1994

## 04: 1994

“I deduce you are in some form of homunculus,” Morgan said. “You have never moved from that seat in the two times I have been here. You have not consumed anything. This is some form of illusion.”

Riddle’s mouth quirked again. “Yes. I find my present form to be … shameful.”

“Well, we shall simply correct that. As I imagine you would want your house-elf to transport you, I can have mine show yours the location.”

Riddle nodded and summoned his elf, so Morgan summoned his elf. Shortly thereafter Riddle’s elf, Pippet, was duly informed and asked to pack up her master’s belongings. Shortly after that, and with the pensieve and crate of memory vials in his pocket, they all moved to Cloke Mansion.

Riddle was given a suite for his own and his elf told to find herself a nice place to settle in, and Nagini left to explore the house and grounds. Then the two of them were settled in a sitting room. Morgan had a light meal to assuage his hunger. It was an unfortunate rudeness, if only because Riddle had no requirement for proper food.

“So what were you planning by way of a ritual?” he asked as he forked up some salad.

“I have two options,” Riddle said. “I was able to secure what was alleged to be the Philosopher’s Stone, but have been unable to verify it. If it is real—for I have difficulty believing that Flamel would simply have handed it over to Dumbledore to protect—its Elixir of Life can be used. If not, there is one requiring bone, flesh, and blood. Unfortunately, that would be a bone from one of my ancestors, flesh of a servant, and the blood of an enemy as part of a ritualistic potion.”

“I saw the graves of your muggle family, but I imagine those would not be well suited. And it’s possible your mother was laid to rest in a paupers’ grave depending on when and where she died.”

“The orphanage told me she gave birth to me there, named me, then died,” Riddle said.

“Same in my world. Still, we might be able to find a Gaunt grave rather than take from the Riddle ones. Or is the ritual better with a bone from someone actually named Riddle?”

“Unspecified.”

Morgan sighed. “All right. The servant?”

“The plan was to use flesh from a follower, a hand, as that is where magic is usually expressed from.”

He nodded. “And you have a follower willing to do so?”

“There is the spineless coward, but he is not the best choice.”

Morgan eyed Riddle carefully. “You clearly have a follower either at Hogwarts or clever and skilled enough to slip in to add the name. The most likely candidate is Moody, somehow, as he was quick to offer up a believable scenario for how it was done. I understand Moody to be a staunch supporter of the Light if what I’ve read is correct, which leaves… A substitution? Polyjuice or some kind of unbreakable glamour?”

Riddle sighed. “It is just as well you’re so intelligent. I knew from those memories you must be, as well as an incredibly hard worker. Seeing it in action, however, makes that even more clear. Yes, the Moody seen at the school is a follower under polyjuice. He would be a better choice as he is a genuine follower. His purpose there is technically fulfilled. Had no Harry Potter arrived there would be no reason for him to remain. One did, and yet did not, and I have no reason or desire to make you my enemy.”

“Perhaps…” He thought for a minute, running scenarios through his head. “Perhaps bring out the real Moody, subjected to some head injury and memory loss, to cover your man’s removal? I do not know how much the wards of the castle impart to Dumbledore. I do not know how good your man is at imitating the real Moody and if Dumbledore is suspicious. He is something of a narcissist. He might not be able to objectively recognize any differences. I would offer to help, but I do not think my presence there would go unremarked. As it is, I had not planned to arrive at the castle until approximately five to ten minutes before the event is to start.”

“Thereby giving Dumbledore little time to meddle,” Riddle stated. “And you may call me Tom.”

Morgan smiled. “And you may call me Morgan, of course.”

“With the first task going on, I see no reason why the real Moody couldn’t have an accident to cover the removal of my follower. It will be dragons, by the way. You will need to retrieve a golden egg from a nest of eggs the one you face is guarding.”

He pursed his lips. Care of Magical Creatures had not been his thing, but he could certainly read up on them starting shortly. He could already think of several ways to distract a dragon while he retrieved the golden egg. “Does your man have the full schedule of events?”

Tom nodded.

“It would be preferable to know ahead of time, so I know exactly how much I can avoid.”

Tom called for Pippet and asked for the schedule, which was shortly delivered and handed over to Morgan.

“So, all right. Weighing of the Wands, on the thirteenth. I see no reason to go to that. It wasn’t listed as required in the rules, only traditional. First Task on the twenty-fourth, starting at 1.30. Yule Ball on the twenty-fifth of December, which I will again be skipping. Another tradition I see no reason to bow to. Second Task on the twenty-fourth of February, at—is this real? We are to retrieve a hostage from the Black Lake, in February?

“What exactly is the audience supposed to do, divine the outcome by the pattern of ripples on the water’s surface? Twenty-seventh of May, a hint regarding the third task, which I will skip, and the Third Task on the twenty-fourth of June, which is a maze full of various creatures and traps, all to see who gets to the trophy at the center first.”

“Which would have been a trap in and of itself,” Tom said, “a portkey to bring the ‘enemy’ to the re-embodiment ritual. No reason for that now, not if we can find an enemy much earlier, or use Moody himself, as I most certainly consider the man my enemy.”

“Enamored of Dumbledore, is he?”

Tom nodded. “And quite rabid in attempting to kill my followers, or imprison them, which is almost as bad and might be worse.”

“What were you fighting for?”

“Freedom. Better education. Less bigotry. The usual things any newcomer to magical Britain might want. Though I also wanted less pandering and lip service to muggle ways. The difference was, I was intelligent enough, charismatic enough, and magically powerful enough to gain followers who agreed with my cause. I was not like the others who ranted and raved and caved to how it is or walked away. I suppose that made me quite a threat.”

“And Dumbledore, with his already suspect past and personality disorder, created his own organization to oppose you and maintain the status quo, all while appearing to be goodness and light and oh so welcoming of those poor children stuck with the muggles?”

“Something like that, yes. I did not always go about things the right way, I realize that, but the odds seemed almost insurmountable. Rather than make me despair that nothing would ever change, it made me more intent to force one. And I suspect the creation of a Horcrux did something to my head.”

“I shall have to read more on them, assuming I can find anything worth reading. I do wonder, though, if the bone chosen is not optimal…”

Tom grimaced. “Then I would need to do the ritual again, after killing the resulting body. I think we should err on the side of caution, of a form of sympathetic magic, and use a bone from my father’s grave. My follower at Hogwarts can provide the flesh—for I could, once re-embodied, provide him with a new hand—and the enemy can be Moody. Dumbledore himself would make the most sense, but I’ll not have anything of that man.”

“If you want to use Moody, perhaps we should talk about how and when,” he said. “Your agent could easily enough be removed during the distraction of the first task, but then plans would need to be made for getting Moody later. When the ritual is done is another matter. Is any day good? Is some symbolism involved?”

“Originally the plan was to hold it the same night as the Third Task, so no, there was no symbolism. The Winter Solstice could be used, but that is on the twenty-second, which means Moody would have to disappear early…”

Morgan shook his head. “At first glance, yes, but really no. If your man were to bring the real Moody here long enough, blood could be taken and him returned with no one the wiser.”

“He would have to be awake so that the, ah, donation was unwilling,” Tom said.

“So we thoroughly bind him, take some blood, and after the ritual is complete, we obliviate the event and have your man return him. The only reason to maintain the disguise beyond that point is so that I would have someone there when I am, keeping an eye out for problems. It would mean your poor agent is stuck there dealing with Dumbledore and the incompetent staff, not to mention teaching Defense.”

“I am agreeable. I shall have to have him slip away long enough to be updated. I am unable to properly feel out the details of the wards here, though I can tell they are strong. I must assume he will not be able to just walk in,” Tom said with an inquiring look.

“He won’t,” he confirmed. “I will have to alter the wards after you are re-embodied, for that would need a drop of blood from you each. Right now he would need permission, and to not be under the effects of polyjuice. Nagini could lead him to a safe spot for me to give that permission. Perhaps the eighteenth? That’s the last weekend prior to the First Task and we’re almost to that point.”

“I will send Pippet with a missive. The later the better, I imagine, as it would be easier for my follower to slip away and not be seen as himself.”

“Were you going to tell me his name?” Morgan asked.

“Barty Crouch Jr.”

“Son of that officious man at the name drawing?”

Tom nodded. “Not a nice man, very inflexible, very old school, and very interested in maintaining or elevating his own power. Barty loathed him for how little the man even bothered to realize he had a son. He did love his mother, but she is now dead. I am the closest thing to family he has at this point.”

Morgan smiled softly. Perhaps he was being an absolute idiot taking all this on faith, but something just insistently told him it would be all right. He did not for a moment think he was a Seer or anything like that, but that did not mean people were unable to get “feelings” about things.

“Then we can bring him in late that night, so he can return at any time, and be updated as to who I am.”

“It’s a plan.”

Nagini brought Barty to the agreed upon meeting spot and Morgan could see some similarities in the man’s face with the Crouch he had seen at the drawing. Barty clearly took after his mother in some respects, however, as he was less sharp angles and a bit more rounded in his facial features.

“Mr Chiswell.”

“Yes, but you can call me Morgan. I am giving you permission to pass through these wards, so let us head on in where Riddle will update you.” «Thank you for your help, Nagini,» he added.

«Of course, speaker.»

Barty seemed to be both pleased and shocked by him speaking Parseltongue, but dutifully enough followed. Inside the house he said, “Nagini will lead you to him. If I am needed for something I’m sure he’ll send his elf or Nagini.” He then wandered off to the kitchen to progress in his quest to learn how to cook.

Morgan arrived at Hogwarts approximately ten minutes prior to the start of the event and made his way to where the event was being held. He could see already that Dumbledore was most put out with not having been able to get into contact with him, that Morgan had not sent an owl, or both.

“Ah, there you are, Mr Potter,” McGonagall said, having spotted him. “The tent is just this way.”

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Inside were the three champions, each of them looking a bit sick. Clearly they had learned through various means about the dragons they would be facing. Silvery was sitting on a low wooden stool in the corner and was rather more pale than the last time he had seen her. Broody looked surly. Cedric was pacing back and forth.

Bagman came in and was obnoxiously cheerful, wearing a set of quidditch robes, which did nothing to disguise just how portly he was. “Well, now we’re all here—time to fill you in!” said Bagman brightly. “When the audience has assembled, I’m going to be offering each of you this bag—” He held up a small sack of purple silk and shook it at them. “—from which you will each select a small model of the thing you are about to face! There are different—er—varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else, too … ah, yes … your task is to collect the golden egg!”

They all sat or stood or paced as they waited for the audience to assemble and be seated, for surely there were stands for them. Cedric paced a bit more violently and his complexion had gone green. Silvery and Broody didn’t so much as twitch at the news.

For someone not the least bit concerned about participating it seemed to take an age before all the spectators were in place, with hundreds of pairs of feet passing by, talking excitedly, laughing, and joking.

Bagman finally acted, opening the purple silk sack, and said, “Ladies first,” before offering it to Silvery. She put a shaking hand inside the bag and drew out a tiny, perfect model of a dragon—a Welsh Green. It had the number two around its neck. She seemed to be struck with determined resignation, which only showed that someone had clued her in.

The same held true for Broody, who pulled out a scarlet Chinese Fireball with the number three around its neck. He didn’t even blink, just sat back down and stared at the ground. Cedric put his hand into the bag, and out came a blueish-gray Swedish Short-Snout, the number one tied around its neck.

Finally it was Morgan’s turn, the unexpected and unwilling participant. He reached into the bag and removed a Hungarian Horntail, with the number four. It stretched its wings and bared its minuscule fangs as he eyed it. It would figure he would get the worst of the lot.

“Well, there you are!” said Bagman. “You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I’m going to have to leave you in a moment, because I’m commentating. Mr. Diggory, you’re first, just go out into the enclosure when you hear a whistle, all right? Now … Harry … could I have a quick word? Outside?”

“Once again, you do not have permission to speak with such familiarity,” he said. “And no, you may not have a quick word.”

Bagman looked quite put out by that, almost pouting, then left the tent.

As he was going over his notes on how to handle the task he heard a whistle blow, then a call for Mr Diggory to face his dragon. Cedric turned even greener, then quit the tent. It was hard to hear Bagman’s commentary over the screaming, yelling, and gasping coming from the audience. Approximately fifteen minutes passed before he heard Bagman shout, “Very good indeed! And now the marks from the judges! …One down, three to go! Miss Delacour, if you please!”

Delacour, now trembling, clutched her wand firmly and exited the tent. Morgan had to assume that Cedric would have been transferred to a makeshift medical facility so that any injuries could be healed. Ten minutes later applause signaled her (presumed) success, then a call for marks. Shortly thereafter Bagman was calling for Mr Krum, and Broody headed out.

‘At least now I know their names,’ he thought, then put his notes away. Krum did not take all that long to get his egg, and it wasn’t long before he heard another whistle and a call for Mr Potter. Morgan set out to the arena and entered, eyeing up the simply massive Hungarian Horntail awaiting him. She was crouched low over her clutch of eggs and her spiked tail was lashing about in agitation, leaving long gouge marks in the ground.

He shrugged and pulled a few rocks to him, then quickly inscribed runes on and charged them. They were sent out to surround the dragon, small enough and non-food-like enough to escape her attention. A few sharp words later and a ward sprang up, followed by a spell to cause a sleeping gas to permeate the space within.

He could have just summoned a potion to do the same, but the spell was fine, just a type of conjuration. Once the dragon started drooping he sent another spell, that one to shield the eggs in case the Horntail collapsed on top of them, but she shifted to the side and instead curled up next to them, tongues of flame shooting from her nostrils.

Morgan used a Bubble Head charm on himself, then calmly walked in to retrieve the egg, retreated back outside the ward, and removed the charm. Another spell cleared the interior, and the makeshift rune stones were summoned to him, breaking the ward.

He of course refused to be shuffled off to the medical tent, nor did he pay attention to the scores he received. Morgan instead left the arena and returned to the original tent, where the other champions had already returned to.

“Well done, all of you!” said Bagman, bouncing into the tent and looking quite pleased. “Now, just a quick few words. You’ve got a nice long break before the second task, which will take place at half past nine on the morning of the twenty-fourth of February—but we’re giving you something to think about in the meantime! If you look down at those golden eggs you’re all holding, you will see that they open—see the hinges there? You need to solve the clue inside the egg, because it will tell you what the second task is, and enable you to prepare for it! All clear? Sure? Well, off you go, then!”

Morgan was the first out of the tent and quickly disillusioned himself, then hastened off, out the main gate, and apparated to Diagon Alley. He headed to his flat, still invisible, then apparated from there to his house.

“How did it go?” Tom asked.

“Well enough,” he said, showing off the egg. “I do wonder exactly who they’ll choose as my hostage, though. It is not as if I plan to go to that ball and show some sort of partiality to anyone. It is not as if I know anyone, and taking a student is just asking to be called a pedophile, never mind that I would never be near one long enough to ask.”

Tom shrugged. “Another reason to keep Barty there for now, I suppose. He should be able to bring us news of their choice, so you know whom to rescue.”

“Well, I don’t see the point in even opening this thing,” he said, setting it aside. “All I need to know is the general location of where the hostages will be. I can spend my time reading more, worrying about how my Sponsored is handling things, and deciding how to handle the Second Task.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea how one would manage cross-world communications,” Tom said. “I don’t think anyone actually believes there is more than one world, though there has been talk every now and then about the possibility of them.”

“I could try a Patronus, but somehow I don’t think that would work. Hm. Perhaps my two-way mirror? I don’t think that would work, either, but I suppose it’s worth a try.”

Tom looked intrigued by the idea.

Morgan fetched it from his secret stash and pushed magic into it while saying, “Hanashite.” Nothing happened for some time, but he had to allow for distance, a barrier between worlds, and time for his Tom to realize his mirror was being contacted. And then it awoke, his Sponsored’s startled and worried face framed within.

“Morgan! What happened!? Where are you!?”

“Something truly odd, Tom. I seem to be in a different world entirely, and I apologize for taking so long to remember we had the mirror set. I’m just glad it worked. I was dragged here due to the idiots in charge deciding to resume the Triwizard Tournament, and myself being someone mistaken for one of the champions.”

“If it is anyone’s fault it is mine,” Tom—Riddle—said, which caused his Tom to look confused.

Morgan got up and sat next to the local Tom so his could see the both of them.

Tom’s eyes went a bit wide. “What on Earth…?”

“I apologize for stealing your friend,” Riddle said. “I am your counterpart, it seems, though our worlds are quite different.”

“No Sponsorship system, for one,” he said. “And I would be seventy-three here, as it is 1995. The Ministry is just as corrupt, however.”

“I’m at a bit of a loss here,” Tom said. “And I expect there is no way for you to return, is there.”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “It is doubtful. I cannot imagine someone on your side managing to get the tournament started and for my name to come out in order to pull me back.”

“Considering that I think they destroyed the thing, I expect not.” Tom looked very unhappy. “I will manage, Morgan. I won’t be happy about it, but I will manage. The people here are decent—you know that—especially after the help we were able to give. You gave me the most precious gifts that could be given, and I don’t plan to waste them.” Tom’s gaze switched to Riddle. “You’re the older one now. Make sure you take care of Morgan.”

“I give you my word,” Riddle said.

“Check in with me every so often, Morgan,” Tom said.

“I will, now that I know it’s possible. Live well, Tom. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Morgan.”

The mirror deactivated and Morgan sighed before putting it back in his stash. “At least I know he’s all right.”

“It is a bit … odd … seeing a version of myself, so young, so…”

“I’m going to bet that ‘innocent’ is not quite the right word,” he said wryly.

Tom hummed. “After everything you two had to live through? No. What sort of love? If it was romantic, I would not have expected you to show any memories of that kind.”

“Hm? No. Platonic. Beautiful as he is, I always felt I had to watch out for him, keep him safe. I wanted to do my best to make sure he could stand on his own. Which is good, considering what has happened. He has a mastery, he could get more, and I made sure he had his own stash, plus what he’s earned. So long as he stays out of Britain it should be all right.”

Barty showed up with the trunk containing the real Moody late on the twenty-second of December, ready to do the re-embodiment ritual. It involved multiple rune circles, a very large cauldron, and a specialized potion. Pippet had just come back with the required bone, so that was ready, too.

The homunculus form of Tom Riddle (no wonder he had not wanted Morgan to see it, as it was quite startling) was placed into the potion in the cauldron, the bone added (with Barty chanting), and then Barty cut off his right hand and let that enter (still chanting). The real Moody was thoroughly bound, awake, and doing his damnedest to escape, not that it served to prevent Barty from taking a vial of the man’s blood to use as the final ingredient, and finished up the chant.

Perhaps he should start learning about ritual magic?

Shortly thereafter a stark naked Tom Riddle emerged from the cauldron, at which point Morgan provided a robe for the man to wear until they could get back to the house. While Tom was fixing Barty’s missing hand (which he assumed would not be a problem with the polyjuice he needed to keep taking, else a different follower would have been used), Morgan was carefully removing all memory of the ritual from Moody’s mind and replacing it with a weird dream involving an army of cabbages and potatoes fighting off attempts to make them into bubble and squeak.

Barty took his polyjuice potion, stuffed Moody back into the trunk, and hauled it away to resume his role as Defense Professor, and Morgan helped with cleaning up the ritual site before returning to the house with Tom.

Tom, for his part, immediately went to his suite to indulge in a common pleasure (a shower) and then joined Morgan for a meal. Tom looked right around Morgan’s age, so at least it wasn’t too weird. He would have felt very strange indeed if Tom Riddle had been in his seventies. The only real oddity was that Tom’s eyes were wine red rather than dark.

“I haven’t had food in over a decade,” Tom said once he sat back replete. “That was marvelous.”

“I am happy you enjoyed it,” he said. “I have been trying to learn how to cook properly. It was usually a house-elf doing so in the past, but as I consider it a basic life skill, it was high time I started.”

Tom nodded, though he did not look in any particular rush to learn as well.

“And really, I don’t have much to do with my time right now. I suppose I could learn ritual magic, though I understand that’s considered Dark Arts here and therefore illegal. Not like that ever stopped me in the past.”

“I have a fair collection of books on the subject,” Tom said. “I would have to retrieve them, but you’re welcome to read and learn from them.”

“That would be kind of you, thank you.” Morgan was pleased by the idea of not having to go looking for any. “You’ll have to see about a proper wardrobe, of course. Do you think anyone will recognize you after so many years?”

Tom’s brow furrowed. “I have an item that will make it hard for people to see my face properly. They’ll just dismiss my looks. I will be able to shop without anyone suddenly wondering how Tom Riddle is back and looking far younger than he has any right to be.”

“Good to hear. I should look into enchanting, as well,” he said. “I can’t say I like this country much, but at least in this world I don’t have to flee it looking for some form of sanity. Might as well do something useful with my time.”

“You could always help me by removing the defective people from the Wizengamot and replacing them with sensible ones,” Tom said innocently.

Morgan squinted at nothing for a moment, considering the idea. “I’ve never killed anyone before, you know. I doubt it would have done much good in the other Britain. Maybe kidnapping, using a ritual to bind their magic, wiping their memories, and dumping them on the muggles?”

“That works, too, I suppose. Though I would have to add in permanent human transfiguration so they would not be recognized. You have a mastery in Warding. Does that mean you know how to break them?”

Morgan nodded. “Part of the mastery, and it helps you to devise better warding schemes. I assume this is to do with actually acquiring the defective ones from their warded homes rather than kidnapping them out of public places?”

“Something like that.”

“Though if we were creative with portkeys, we could fake them disapparating from Diagon Alley and straight into a ward of mine that would knock them out.”

Tom looked intrigued again. “Or the Imperius Curse, used to get them to quietly show up at such a place where they’d be knocked out.”

“I assume you know it, then, because I don’t. I mean, I know the incantations for the Unforgivables, but I’ve never attempted to cast any of them. I’m not sure I could work up the level of emotion necessary to cast one successfully.”

“We’ll leave that as an Option C,” Tom said. “A banishing charm showing up on one’s wand is nothing to get fussed over, assuming one were silly enough to be caught in the first place.”

Morgan idly folded a spare piece of paper into frog and said, “I would hope a Slytherin would be too cunning for that. And a Ravenclaw too intelligent. The combination thereof, well…”

“It is certainly something to think about.”


	5. 05: 1994-1995

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ebook copies: [[.azw3](http://hp.grazhir.com/fairest/Fairest%20and%20Fallen%20-%20Shivani.azw3)] [[.epub](http://hp.grazhir.com/fairest/Fairest%20and%20Fallen%20-%20Shivani.epub)] [[.mobi](http://hp.grazhir.com/fairest/Fairest%20and%20Fallen%20-%20Shivani.mobi)]

## 05: 1994-1995

For Yule he got Tom copies of his personal journals, the ones he had made during his various mastery studies. Honestly, he just wasn’t sure what a dark lord would want as a gift so he went with what he knew best. Tom seemed appreciative enough and thanked him with what looked to be an appreciative smile, so he nodded and opened his own gift.

Tom had gotten him cookbooks from around the world, which made him smile. Now he did not have to go to the trouble of exchanging gold for various currencies, plus all the trouble it would be to wander through various muggle book shops (possibly in various countries) in order to have recipes to test out and tinker with.

All in all it was a nice Yule.

He heard after the fact that the Yule Ball held at Hogwarts went well enough, though there was a bit of an upset when they discovered Morgan had not bothered to show up for it. It was just tradition, after all, not a requirement.

“Apparently,” Tom said, not looking up from the letter he was reading, “they canvassed the Gryffindor seventh years looking for a volunteer. They were not told they would be your hostage, nor that they would be placed under the lake, nor were they told they would receive 10ʛ for doing it.”

“They were retroactively bribed?” he asked in disbelief.

Tom shrugged. “I’m sure the average Gryffindor would have done it for no reason other than that it was dangerous. At any rate, your hostage is a seventh year boy by the name of Toby Lennox. Barty included a picture.”

Morgan accepted the photograph and saw the face of a boy who would blend into the background of any gathering. Mousy brown hair, brown eyes, lightly tanned skin… He was probably of average height, average weight, and basically a complete nonentity. With luck the other hostages would be suitably distinctive.

Without knowing their preferences—and why would he want to know?—he could make no guesses as to the sex of their hostages. They simply needed to be not average, as he was unsure how much being under water would alter their looks and make things harder.

Morgan set the photograph on his chair’s side table and took a sip from his wine.

“He also says the hostages will be at the approximate center of the lake, in the merpeople village, tied to a statue to keep them from floating off. The merpeople will also be singing, it seems, to help guide the champions to them, once they get close enough.”

“So I can take a direction reading from the bank and keep following that. I already know there are grindylows in the lake, so I should avoid going too low, and there are selkies rather than warm-water versions. I suppose I could do an invisible fly-by ahead of time and drop a rune that would help to guide me.”

“If you like I will teach you how to fly unsupported.”

Morgan smiled at the offer. “I would appreciate that. Unfortunately, my snake form is not a winged one, and I am uncertain I could disillusion myself that way. I do well enough on a broom, but it would be one less thing to have to hide.”

“Have you ever tried swimming in snake form?” Tom asked. “I had a thought that if you could, you might dive into the water, transform, then slither along just under the surface so that you would not be known as one. It is possible a Bubble-Head Charm would stick.”

“I could run some tests,” he said. “I’m not sure how fast I would be in that form. It might be better to add disillusionment as a charm, as I might miss a selkie spying, and they might let it be known I have a form, and then I would have to register, I imagine.”

“And then switch back to human once you got close enough?” Tom nodded.

“If tests show it’s not a viable plan, I’ll stick to human form, spells to help propel me through the water, and homing in on the beacon I plan to drop. It’s not as if I’m trying to win this competition, so a lack of showing off would be to my advantage.”

“Do you even know what your scores were for the first task?”

Morgan shook his head. “I plan to ignore them this time, too. I didn’t even try all that hard during the first task, so I expect they were low.”

Tom stared at him for a long moment, seemingly in disbelief, then looked back down at the letter. “Barty reiterates that the task will begin the morning of the twenty-fourth, at 9.30, so you should probably arrive at the lake by 9.20, even though that would give Dumbledore additional time to attempt to talk at you.”

“I can always arrive disillusioned and simply appear a minute before the stated time. I should probably work something up such that I would be mostly ignored in the lake. A repelling ward of some kind. So long as I wait until the last second to deactivate it, a sleeping hostage should not be affected. I’ll start on that tomorrow after breakfast. Or possibly unsupported flight.”

Tom nodded agreeably.

Morgan arrived in Hogsmeade, walked to the Shrieking Shack, and ducked behind it so he could disillusion himself to the point of true invisibility. He then used Tom’s method of flight to rise up into the air and head over to the center of the lake, where he dropped a tiny stone with micro-engravings (muggle tools had come in very handy for that). 

It hitting the water would slow it down enough that it should not rocket through a selkie’s head and kill any of them, but it was also heavy enough to actually sink rather than be pushed off course by movement of the water. Once that was accomplished he checked to be sure he could sense the thing still, then retraced his flight pattern back to the Shrieking Shack, apparated to his flat, and dropped his disillusionment.

He arrived at the lakeside at 9.25, having had the sense to be invisible the whole time, and checking again to ensure he could sense the beacon he had dropped. He had a runic ward on hand which he would activate the moment he was under the water, which would repel any living and awake thing from him.

Diggory, Delacour, and Krum were all already there, and seemed to have been for at least ten minutes given the way two of them were shivering. If they had not the sense to use charms or some other method to ensure they remained warm, well… It did not bode well for their intelligence, basically.

At the water’s edge was a gold-draped table, at which sat the judges for the Second Task. Maxime, Bagman, Karkaroff, Dumbledore, and—some red-haired young man rather than Crouch Sr. Given how Barty felt about his father, Morgan could not say he was surprised that Crouch Sr was indisposed for some reason.

Bagman got up and started positioning the champions ten feet apart at the lakeside, so Morgan phased into view ten feet to the side of Krum, who was wearing just swimming trunks and held his wand in one hand. Bagman noticed him there, blinked in surprise, then returned to the judges’ table. A quick Amplifying Charm and he was saying, “Well, all our champions are ready for the Second Task, which will start on my whistle. They have precisely an hour to recover what has been taken from them—”

“Which begs the question of exactly what that is in my case,” he said loudly enough to discomfit Bagman.

“—so on the count of three, then. One! …Two! …Three!”

He heard the _Pheeee!_ of a whistle and used a Bubble-Head Charm, then waded in far enough that he could dive beneath the surface. Another Disillusionment Charm was employed, his ward was activated, and he set off toward the beacon he could sense, using his wand to propel him along rather than exerting so much effort on the act of swimming.

Testing had revealed that he could not maintain the charms in snake form.

He knew he was getting close when he heard a snatch of mersong.

> #### “An hour long you’ll have to look,  
>  And to recover what we took…”

A few minutes later he arrived at the location of his beacon which, while not in precisely the right place, was close enough that he could see the expected village. Four hostages were tied to a selkie statue with what looked to be ropes fashioned from grasses or weeds. His hostage was second from the right, so he dropped his invisibility and propelled himself closer, grabbed a rock from the lake bed, transfigured it into a knife, and used it to cut the ropes.

He noticed in passing that the selkies stayed a decent distance from him.

The knife was allowed to revert to being a rock, and Morgan hauled his hostage off, reapplying the Disillusionment Charm along the way, to both of them, and headed back toward the shore, his heading derived from the angle he had approached the merpeople village.

He dropped his invisibility as soon as the water started to get too shallow, and deactivated the ward, then broke the surface. His hostage woke up very confused, but suffered to be dragged onto the shore, wherein he was dragged off by the school’s matron to be wrapped tightly in a blanket and have Pepperup Potion forced down his throat.

The matron headed toward Morgan to do the same, but his steely look had her scowling and stomping back to her patient. Morgan reactivated his ward, plus one to make him uninteresting, and slipped off behind the judges’ table to take a seat on a chair transfigured from a rock. That gave him plenty of time to dry off and be bored enough to cast his gaze over the area, looking for anything of interest.

Diggory was next to return, his hostage an Asian girl (and presumably his girlfriend if the way they acted meant anything). Following that was Krum, his hostage a younger girl. Delacour returned without anyone, but he assumed her hostage was the much too young girl down there with a cloud of silvery hair that rivaled Delacour’s own.

“You haff a water beetle in your hair, Herm-own-ninny,” said Krum.

The girl brushed away the beetle impatiently and looked around, though it struck Morgan as odd that any water beetle would be active during February. He quietly transfigured another rock into a small glass jar, another into a stopper with holes in it for air, and summoned the beetle to him, to be safely secured. That went into his pocket to be looked at later.

Off to the side, the judges were having a talk with a group of merpeople, but then Bagman used an Amplifying Charm again and boomed out, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached out decision. Merchieftainess Murcus has told us exactly what happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have therefore decided to award marks out of fifty for each champion, as follows…”

Morgan zoned out during that part, completely uninterested in the scores, but zoned back in to hear, “The third and final task will take place at dusk on the twenty-fourth of June. The champions will be notified of what is coming precisely one month beforehand. Thank you all for your support of the champions.”

Morgan stood, went invisible, and flew off toward Hogsmeade. He had a suspicious beetle to investigate.

Tom viewed the beetle and nodded. “Quite curious. As small as that is I would normally say it is not terribly suspicious. But to be right there at the Second Task and on a student…”

Morgan nodded. “Even beetles which are active in the winter are not often seen. They’re far too interested in not freezing. I did not think it was possible to become something so small, but perhaps this is an animagus?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Unfortunately, I know of no spell that would reveal an animal to simply be an animagus form. We can attempt the reversal spell, but if that is an animagus, it needs to either have its memory wiped or be killed. If it’s just a beetle…”

“It can still be killed, or one of the elves can drop it somewhere reasonably warm.” Morgan thought for a moment, then said, “I have a room we can use, one I can ward so it cannot escape.”

Shortly thereafter the beetle was inside a cubic, runic ward structure and a spell had been used to pop the cork on the jar so it could have the reversal spell cast on it without potentially dying from having the glass shattered. The beetle then attempted to escape, to no avail, and when it rested for a few seconds too long, a spell hit it.

A blonde woman was revealed, dressed in poisonous green, wearing a hideous set of glasses that looked as if they had come from an earlier time period.

Morgan and Tom exchanged a look, then Tom said, “That is Rita Skeeter, hack reporter for the _Daily Prophet_. She seems to think it’s her sworn duty to pass lies off as truth and does her damnedest to drag people’s reputations through the mud.”

“We can do the same thing to her we’ve been planning to do to the others,” Morgan said.

“Agreed.”

Morgan nodded and brought up his wand, then proceeded to wipe her memories clean of pretty much everything. That way she wouldn’t have the wit to object when her magic was bound and she was dropped off in Cardiff or some other large city to be found by the muggles and mistaken for a crazy, homeless person.

“So all that’s left is the Third Task, and then we can see about quietly removing all the defective people from the Wizengamot.”

“We should probably also include the Ministry itself,” Tom said.

“Would that cause a collapse of the power structure?”

Tom shrugged. “All else failing, we gather up our gold and move to a different country until it settles down.”

“Then return and see if any tweaks need to be made, I suppose,” he said.

“You barely had any time at all in Japan,” Tom pointed out. “One way or another, for whatever reason, we should probably go visit. I’m sure plenty of things have changed since 1947.”

“You don’t know the language, though.”

“I can learn, and there are translation charms. They didn’t have those back in the day. It would help me to get on while I’m learning the language properly. I have not properly lived in over a decade,” Tom said. “I would like to do so. I would also like to take care of some issues here at home before that. You at least have some experience with Japan. It was not one of the countries I visited, as I knew of their policy when it came to the Dark Arts.”

“Their definition of Dark Arts probably differs from the one here.”

Tom shrugged again. “Then we can investigate that. Have a holiday, return, and see how things have settled down, assuming they have. If not we choose another country to investigate.”

And because it was a version of Tom Riddle he didn’t have a problem with that. That it was a Tom Riddle he did not have to protect and watch out for made it all the better. This one had close to fifty years on him, but a good chunk of that had been spent as a wraith, so it evened up the gap somewhat. They seemed to have a similar mindset, though he expected Tom was not unacquainted with the Unforgiveables given an earlier statement.

It was not that big of a deal to him, thought he thought their use was somewhat silly in the face of so many other ways to do the same. Though spells or potions to control people were not nearly as effective as the Imperius Curse, they did have the distinction of not being as easily shrugged off by someone of great mental strength.

If you were going to go so far as to kill someone, why not make a statement with it?

And was not wiping an entire lifetime of memories effectively death?

“What do you plan to do about the Third Task?”

Morgan set his tea aside and had a biscuit before saying, “I could just enter the maze and then get conveniently lost. One of the actual students should be the one to reach it first. All I must do is satisfy the requirements of the binding, which is to make at least a token effort at participating. I don’t understand the scoring as it is anyway. It sounds like the first person to reach it wins, with previous scores dictating who goes in when. Why not a cup with a flesh memory like a snitch to see who arrived in what order and then decide the winner based on the aggregate score?”

“No one ever said wizards had common sense, Morgan, and logic is far too often lacking entirely.”

“Will Barty be able to provide the details as to what will be in that maze?”

“He should be able to,” Tom said. “You could plan the most torturous path to take, at walking speed, and simply wait until the cup is claimed. It would be exceedingly unlikely that you would still somehow manage to be the one to reach it first.”

“Even if I did, I would simply disillusion myself and wait. Barty won’t be interfering as he would have been in the original plan, so I’m sure one of them will manage it before I get anywhere near the cup.”

“Right. We simply have to wait until Barty gets us the required information, then.”

The quidditch pitch at Hogwarts had been transformed into a maze, the hedges twenty feet high along the outer edge. There was only one visible entrance, and the passage beyond looked dark and creepy. Having had the sense to check an almanac, Morgan knew that sunset was expected at 10.02 that evening, and dusk was the period of time after, so clearly Bagman was an idiot.

The fact that the evening meal was from six to eight o’clock and the champions sent down even before it was fully over meant that it was still quite light out. Morgan waited, with his keep-away and don’t-notice-me wards active, and observed as the patrollers kept an eye on the champions. The patrollers, it seemed, were Hagrid, Moody, McGonagall, and Flitwick, and each wore large, red, luminous stars on their hats (except for Hagrid, who wore his on the back of his vest).

It took quite some time for all the spectators to make their way to the pitch and take seats in the various viewing stands, and by then it was nine o’clock. Bagman had begun to peer around looking for the missing champion, so Morgan deactivated his don’t-notice-me ward and allowed himself to be … noticed.

“We are going to be patrolling the outside of the maze,” McGonagall said to the champions. “If you get into difficulty and require rescue, send red sparks into the air. One of us will come get you, do you understand?”

The three champions nodded.

“Off you go, then!” Bagman said brightly to the four patrollers, who then left to station themselves outside the maze. An Amplifying Charm was employed before Bagman said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! In first place, with ninety points, Mr Harry Potter!”

There was a smattering of applause. Morgan assumed most people had no real clue how to react.

“In second place, with eighty-five points, Mr Cedric Diggory of Hogwarts School!”

The cheers and applause sent birds from the Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky.

“In third place, with eighty points, Mr Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute!”

Yet more applause was heard, though with the numbers advantage on Diggory’s side, it was closer to polite than enthused.

“And in fourth place, Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy!”

The applause was no better than that for Krum, and even more polite.

“So … on my whistle, Mr Potter! …Three! …Two! …One!” Bagman said, followed quickly by another _Pheeee!_ of a whistle being blown.

Morgan nodded and sauntered in with maddening casualness. He had not yet reached the fork in sight up ahead when he heard the whistle blow again and Diggory was sent in. The boy blew past him with a look of confusion and headed off to the left at the fork up ahead. Morgan headed right, still treating it all as an evening walk, and a third whistle blow was heard.

Krum scurried past him a short time later, also shooting him a look of confusion. For Delacour, he had no idea, for Morgan had continued on his planned route. She must have either gone left at the initial fork, or taken a different path off the right one.

His path was calculated both by Barty’s information and the invisible flight he had taken over it, mostly so he could use a memory of the viewing to sketch out the various paths, all so he could waste as much time as possible taking precisely the worst route and have to keep backtracking, all while paying lip service to actively participating so as not to invoke sanctions by the Goblet of Fire.

His reactivation at that point of his wards ensured that none of the living obstacles bothered with him, so he simply bypassed them at a slow walk or, in the case of one, used his wand to create a large-enough tunnel going underneath the obstacle that he could bypass it anyway without getting dirty.

Without warning all the hedges slammed down, which meant someone had made it to the Triwizard Cup. Morgan immediately went invisible and launched himself into the air. He just needed to stick around until the winner was officially announced, as then he would be released from the contract’s binding.

Krum was the one portkeyed to the winner’s podium, and therefore the winner. Delacour and Diggory were revealed on the pitch, and looked to be incredibly disappointed. Those two started to walk toward the podium, rather dragging their feet, but once they arrived Bagman used another Amplifying Charm to announce what everyone already knew.

Minister Fudge—an idiot if Morgan had ever seen one—said a few pompous words and handed over a sack of galleons to go with the Triwizard Cup, and officially closed the whole thing.

Morgan flew off to the Shrieking Shack (which had a different name entirely in his original world), dropped down behind it, and disapparated to Diagon Alley, walked to his flat, then disapparated to his house in Yorkshire.

“Well, that’s over,” he said as he took a seat in the library where Tom was reading.

“While disagreeable that you had to be involved, I cannot be regretful that you were and that I caused you to be brought here.”

Morgan smiled briefly. “Aside from having to leave Tom behind, I can’t say that I mind. You and I are on a more equal footing for one. Despite having left Britain behind, it remains true that I, in a sense, owned Tom Riddle, and there could be no true equality between us, no matter how much we might have desired it. Even the most basic of contracts ensured that. With me gone he is truly free to make his own life, and I am free to make mine.”

“And given enough time, people will forget you were even called Harry James Potter for the duration of the tournament.”

“I sincerely hope so. Reading up on that night was one thing. Reading about how people reacted over time was something else. Had that poor boy lived he would have been a commodity, not a person, and I expect Dumbledore would have been the one holding the leash. I don’t dare try to enter Dumbledore’s mind due to what I expect to be formidable shields, but the way he tried to take control gives me plenty for the basis of speculation.”

“And he wouldn’t be susceptible to the Imperius Curse, I expect,” Tom said. “He is an obstacle, however, one we should consider removing.”

“Oh, I agree. True, he was not quite the same in my world, but he was still not someone I would have trusted. And with his example, I shudder to think how ineffectual the teaching staff at the school must be.”

Tom chuckled darkly. “That reminds me. We should remove Severus Snape. He is, after all, mostly responsible for the lowered amount of Potioneers, Aurors, and Healers in Britain over the past decade and a half. I may not have been able to directly affect much, but I was more than able to keep an eye on things. I could be mistaken, but I do believe he is both supremely confident in his status of youngest Potions Master ever—in Britain, anyway—and the utter idiocy of everyone around him. He does not teach, he terrorizes. And I doubt he has ever gotten over how he was treated during his school years. He has become the very thing he was so contemptuous of: a bully.”

“Abuse of power, then, huh? Lovely. So we can check the Wizengamot, the Ministry, and Hogwarts for people who need to be removed.”

“For the Greater Good,” Tom said smirking.

Morgan laughed. “Somehow I don’t think Dumbledore will see it that way.”

“Probably not,” Tom said agreeably. “On another note, have you ever kissed someone?”

Morgan blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “No, never.”

“Neither have I. Would you like to try it?”

He pondered that for some time. He had never been much interested in sex, because he had always seen it on display as a method of power, of control over another. The very idea of it being a mutual desire was somewhat foreign. Then again, it was not as if he had ever spied on Uncle Fleamont and Aunt Euphemia in their bedroom, or anyone, really, who was in a relationship rather than dealing with a Sponsored.

He knew of a fair few Sponsors who continued to use their Sponsored well after they had been married off to the Sponsor’s choice of spouse, either for their own sexual needs, or at parties, for entertainment purposes. And the Sponsored were so brainwashed into compliance that they were happy to be of service. The whole thing made him sick.

But two people, both adults, with no Sponsorship program in the way … someone he got along well with, found attractive?

“All right.” He got up from his chair and sat on a loveseat instead, where Tom joined him. “I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed anyone kissing in the magical world, nothing beyond a kiss on the cheek or forehead.”

“I have. Will you let me lead?”

“Yes.”

Tom rested his left hand alongside Morgan’s face, the leaned in to touch lips. He pulled back briefly, looking at him with one brow quirked, then leaned back in for another.

Snape made the mistake of leaving Hogwarts for a shopping trip in Diagon Alley. He also made the mistake of being there late, when it was darker. The sun started to set almost an hour earlier that much farther south. No one noticed the portkey that was banished at the man just as he stepped into an area normally used for apparation.

Morgan retreated to his flat and disapparated from there, to where the man had been sent. Tom was waiting, looking pleased, and Snape was out cold due to the ward around his landing point. With the Potions Master out cold, and with another Potions Master in the room, it was easy to use potions to make the man compliant enough to be able to search through his mind with Legilimency.

Morgan sat back in disgust once they were done. “He really has been a bastard.”

“I imagine his abusive father was no help, nor his spineless mother, but even so… Dumbledore did him no favors.”

“I have no qualms about disappearing him,” he said. “He’s just that vile. We can wipe his entire life, do a bit of permanent transfiguration, and dump him somewhere. What happens to him then is out of our hands, even if it is likely he’ll die fairly quickly.”

“And it made for a good test case. The question remains how to trick Dumbledore into the same position. Some of the others in power will be quite wily, but some will be far too sure of their standing to think themselves targets.”

“I would suggest a sherbet lemon convention, but somehow I do not see Dumbledore falling for that. There is also the issue of whether his phoenix would become a complication.” He frowned. “He is more difficult of a case. Perhaps there is a way to induce a fatal heart attack? It is more direct in terms of death, but I cannot get too squeamish considering we’ve already consigned one to a likely death, and are about to do the same to this one here.”

“There is also the Board of Governors to consider,” Tom pointed out, “though I am unsure what exactly they do. They supposedly oversee the running of the school, but I have never investigated in depth. Without knowing if Dumbledore does more than talk people around to his way of thinking…”

“Perhaps we can get a copy of meeting minutes for the past decade or so?” he suggested. “We might consider handling that last, for if the hardcore pure-blood supremacists are still in the Wizengamot and Ministry, they might take Dumbledore’s death as a clear sign to start passing even more ridiculous laws.”

Tom hummed, then nodded. “In the meantime, we can still attempt to get those documents. But before that, how would you feel about more kissing? Or perhaps a bit more than that?”

He smiled. “Yes, I think that would be lovely. I have become quite curious. How about my bedroom?”

“Let us go.”


End file.
